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

by William Gilmore Simms

CHAP. I.

Le Genré, one of the lieutenants of Laudonniere, was of fierce and intractable temper. His passions had been thwarted by his superior, whose preferences were clearly with another of his lieutenants, named D’Erlach.[21] This preference was quite sufficient to provoke the envy and enmity of Le Genré. His dislike was fully retorted, and with equal spirit by his brother officer. But the feelings of D’Erlach, who was the more noble and manly of the two, were restrained by his prudence and sense of duty. It had been the task of Laudonniere more than once to interfere between these persons, and prevent those outrages which he had every reason to apprehend from their mutual excitability; and it was partly with the view to keep the parties separate, that he had so frequently despatched D’Erlach upon his exploring expeditions. One of these appointments, however, which Le Genré had desired for himself, had given him no little mortification when he found that, as usual, D’Erlach had received the preference from his superior. It was no proper disparagement of the claims of others that D’Erlach had been thus preferred. That he was a favorite, was, perhaps, quite as much due to his own merits as to the blind partiality of his superior. In choosing him for the command of his most important expeditions, Laudonniere was, in fact, doing simple justice to the superior endowments of caution, prudence, moderation, and firmness, which the young officer confessedly possessed in very eminent degree. But Le Genré was not the person to recognize these arguments, or to acknowledge the superior fitness of his colleague. His discontents, fanned by the arts of others, and daily receiving provocation from new causes, finally wrought his blood into such a state of feverish irritation, as left but little wanting to goad him to actual insubordination and mutiny.

Laudonniere was not ignorant of the factious spirit of his discontented lieutenant. He had been warned by D’Erlach that he was a person to be watched, and his own observations had led him equally to this conviction. His eye, accordingly, was fixed keenly and suspiciously upon the offender, but cautiously, however, so as to avoid giving unnecessary pain or provocation. But Laudonniere’s vigilance was partial only; and his suspicions were by no means so intense as those of D’Erlach. Besides, his attention was divided among his discontents. He had become painfully conscious that Le Genré was not alone in his factious feelings. He felt that the spirit of this officer was widely spreading in the garrison. The moods of others, sullen, peevish, and doubtful, had already startled his fears; and he too well knew the character of his personnel, and from what sources they had been drawn, not to be apprehensive of their tempers. Signs of insubordination had been shown already, on various occasions; and had not Laudonniere been of that character which more easily frets with its doubts than provides against them, he might have legitimately employed a salutary punishment in anticipating worse offences. The looks of many had become habitually sullen, their words few and abrupt when addressed to their commander, while their tasks were performed coldly and with evident reluctance. Without exhibiting any positive or very decided conduct, by which to leave themselves open to rebuke, their deportment was such as to betray the impatience of bitter and resentful moods, which only forbore open utterance by reason of their fears. Laudonniere, without having absolute cause to punish, was equally wanting in the nice tact which can, adroitly, and without a fall from dignity, conciliate the inferior. Angry at the appearances which he could neither restrain nor chastise, he was not sufficiently the commander to descend happily to soothe. In this distracted condition of mind, he prepared to despatch his third and last vessel to France, to implore the long-expected supplies and assistance.

It was a fine evening, at the close of September, such an evening as we frequently experience during that month in the South, when a cool breeze, arising from the ocean, ascends to the shores and the forests, and compensates, by its exquisite and soothing freshness, for the burning heat and suffocating atmosphere of the day. Our Frenchmen at La Caroline were prepared to enjoy the embraces of this soothing minister. Some walked upon the parapets of the fortress, others lay at length along the bluff of the river, while others again, in the shade of trees farther inland, grouped together in pleasant communion, enjoyed the song or the story, with as much gaiety as if all their cares were about to be buried with the sun that now hung, shorn of his fiery locks, just above the horizon. Laudonniere passed among these groups with the look of one who did not sympathize with their enjoyments. He was feeble, dull, and only just recovering from a sickness which had nigh been fatal. His eye rested upon the river where lay the vessel, the last remaining to his command, which, in two days more, was to be despatched for France. He had just left her, and his course now lay for the deep woods, a mile or more inland. He was followed, or rather accompanied, by a youth, apparently about nineteen or twenty years of age—a younger brother of D’Erlach, his favorite lieutenant. This young man shared in the odium of his brother, as he also was supposed to enjoy too largely the favors of Laudonniere. The truth was, that he was much more the favorite than his brother. He was a youth of great intelligence and sagacity, observing mind, quick wit, and shrewd, capacious remark. The slower thought of his commander was quickened by his intelligence, and relied, much more than the latter would have been willing to allow, upon the insinuated, rather than expressed, suggestions of the youth. Alphonse D’Erlach, but for his breadth of shoulders and activity of muscle, would have seemed delicately made. He was certainly effeminately habited. He had a boyish love of ornament which was perhaps natural at his age, but it had been observed that his brother Achille, though thirty-five, displayed something of a like passion. Our youth wore his dagger and his pistols, the former hung about his neck by a scarf, and the latter were stuck in the belt about his waist. The dagger was richly hilted, and the pistols, though of excellent structure, were rather more remarkable for the beauty of their ornaments than for their size and seeming usefulness as weapons for conflict.

“And you think, Alphonse,” said Laudonniere, when they had entered the wood, “that Le Genré is really anxious to return to France in the Sylph.”

“I say nothing about his return to France, but that he will apply to you for the command of the Sylph, I am very certain.”

“Well! And you?——”

“Would let him have her.”

“Indeed! I am sorry, Alphonse, to hear you say so. Le Genré is not fit for such a trust. He has no judgment, no discretion. It would be a hundred to one that he never reached France.”

“That is just my opinion,” said the youth, coolly.

“Well! And with this opinion, you would have me risk the vessel in his hands?”

“Yes, I would! The simple question is, not so much the safety of the vessel as our own. He is a dangerous person. His presence here is dangerous to us. If he stays, unless our force is increased, in another month he will have the fortress in his hands; he will be master here. You have no power even now to prevent him. You know not whom to trust. The very parties that you arm and send out for provisions, might, if they pleased, turn upon and rend us. If he were not the most suspicious person in the world—doubtful of the very men that serve him—he would soon bring the affair to an issue. Fortunately, he doubts rather more than we confide. He knows not his own strength, and your seeming composure leads him to overrate ours. But he is getting wiser. The conspiracy grows every day. I am clear that you should let him go, take his vessel, pick his crew, and disappear. He will not go to France, that I am certain. He will shape his course for the West Indies as soon as he is out of our sight, and be a famous picaroon before the year is over.”

“Alphonse, you are an enemy of Le Genré.”

“That is certain,” replied the youth; “but if I am his enemy, that is no good reason why I should be the enemy of truth.”

“True, but you suspect much of this. You know nothing.”

“I know all that I have told you,” replied the young man, warmly.

“Indeed! How?”

“That I cannot tell. Enough that I am free to swear upon the Holy Evangel, that all I say is true. Le Genré is at the head of a faction which is conspiring against you.”

“Can you give me proof of this?”

“Yes, whenever you dare issue the order for his arrest and that of others. But this you cannot do. You must not. They are too strong for you. If Achille were here now!”

“Ay! Would he were!”

They now paused, as if the end of their walk had been reached. Laudonniere wheeled about, with the purpose of returning. They had not begun well to retrace their steps before the figure of a person was seen approaching them.

“Speak of the devil,” said Alphonse, “and he thinks himself called; here comes Le Genré.”

“Indeed!” said Laudonniere.

“See now if I am not right—he comes to solicit the command of the Sylph.”

They were joined by the person of whom they had been speaking. His approach was respectful—his manner civil—his tones subdued. There was certainly a change for the better in his deportment. A slight smile might have been seen to turn the corner of the lips of young D’Erlach, as he heard the address of the new comer. Le Genré began by requesting a private interview with his commander. Upon the words, D’Erlach went aside and was soon out of hearing. His prediction was true. Le Genré respectfully, but earnestly, solicited the command of the vessel about to sail for France. He was civilly but positively denied. Laudonniere had not been impressed by the suggestion of his youthful counsellor; or, if he were, he was not prepared to yield a vessel of the king, with all its men and munitions, to the control of one who might abuse them to the worst purposes. The face of Le Genré changed upon this refusal.

“You deny me all trust, Monsieur,” he said. “You refused me the command when my claim was at least equal to that of Ottigny. You denied me that which you gave to D’Erlach, and now—Monsieur, do you hold me incompetent to this command?”

“Nay,” said Laudonniere, “but I better prefer your services here—I cannot so well dispense with them.”

A bitter smile crossed the lips of the applicant.

“I cannot complain of a refusal founded upon so gracious a compliment. But, enough, Monsieur, you refuse me! May I ask, who will be honored with this command?”

“Lenoir!”

“I thought so—another favorite! Well!—Monsieur, I wish you a good evening.”

“You have refused him, I see,” said Alphonse, returning as the other disappeared.

“Yes, I could do no less. The very suggestion that he might convert the vessel to piratical purposes, was enough to make me resolve against him.”

And, still discussing that and other kindred subjects, Laudonniere

and his young companion followed in the steps of La Genré towards the fortress.

[CHAPTER II.]

That night the young Alphonse D’Erlach might have been seen stealing cautiously from the quarters of Laudonniere

, and winding along under cover of the palisades to one of the entrances of the fortress. He was wrapped in a huge and heavy cloak which effectually disguised his person. Here he was joined by another, whom he immediately addressed:

“Bon Pre?”

“The same: all’s ready.”

“Have they gone?”

“Yes!”

“Let us go.”

They went together to the entrance. The person whom Alphonse called Bon Pre, was a short, thick-set person, fully fifty years of age. They approached the sentry at the gate.

“Let us out, my son,” said Bon Pre; “we are late.”

When they were without the walls, they stole along through the ditch, concealed in the deep shade of the place, cautiously avoiding all exposure to the star-light. On reaching a certain point, they ascended, and, taking the cover of bush and tree, made their way to the river, and getting into a boat which lay beneath the banks, pushed off, and suffered her to drop down the stream, the old man simply using the paddle to shape her course. A brief conversation, in whispers, followed between them.

“You told him all?” asked Bon Pre.

“No; but just enough for our purpose. As I told you, he believes nothing. He is too good a man himself to believe any body thoroughly bad.”

“He will grow wiser before he is done. You did not suffer him to know where you got your information?”

“No—surely not. He would have been for having a court, and a trial, and all that sort of thing. You would have sworn to the truth in vain, and they would assassinate you. We must only do what we can to prevent, and leave the punishment for another season. If time is allowed us——”

“Ay, but that ‘if!’” said the old man. “Time will not be allowed. Le Genré will be rather slow—but there are some persons not disposed to wait for the return of the parties under Ottigny and your brother.”

“Enough!” said D’Erlach—“Here is the cypress.”

With these words, the course of the canoe was arrested, the prow turned in towards the shore, and adroitly impelled, by the stroke of Bon Pre’s paddle, directly into the cavernous opening of an ancient cypress which stood in the water, but close to the banks. This ancient tree stood, as it were, upon two massive abutments. The cavern into which the boat passed was open in like manner on the opposite side. The prow of the canoe ran in upon the land, while the stern rested within the body of the tree. Alphonse cautiously stepped ashore, and was followed by his older companion. They were now upon the same side of the river with the fortress. The course which they had taken had two objects. To avoid fatigue and detection in a progress by land, and to reach a given point in advance of the conspirators, who had taken that route. Of course, our two companions had timed their movements with reference to the previous progress of the former. They advanced in the direction of the fort, which lay some three miles distant, but at the distance of fifty or sixty yards from the place where they landed, came to a knoll thickly overgrown with trees and shrubbery. A creek ran at its foot, in the bed of which stood numerous cypresses—amongst these Alphonse D’Erlach disappeared, while Bon Pre ascended the knoll, and seated himself in waiting upon a fallen cypress.

He had not long to wait. In less than twenty minutes, a whistle was heard—to which Bon Pre responded, in the notes of an owl. The sound of voices followed, and, after a little interval, one by one, seven persons ascended the knoll, and entered the area which was already partially occupied by Bon Pre. There were few preliminaries, and Le Genré opened the business. Bon Pre, it is seen, was one of the conspirators and in their fullest confidence. He had left the fort before them, or had pretended to do so. They had each left at different periods. We have seen his route. It is only necessary to add, that they had come together but a little while before their junction at the knoll. Of course, their several revelations had yet to be made. Le Genré commenced by relating his ill success in regard to the vessel.

“We must have it, at all hazards,” said Stephen Le Genevois, “we can do nothing without it.”

“I do not see that;” was the reply of Jean La Roquette. This person, it may be well to say, was one possessing large influence among the conspirators. He claimed to be a magician, dealt much in predictions, consulted the stars, and other signs, as well of earth as of heaven; and, among other things, pretended, by reason of his art, to know where, at no great distance, was a mine of silver, the richest in the world. Almost his sole reason for linking himself with the conspirators, was the contempt with which his pretensions had been treated by his commander, in regard to the search after this mine.

“I do not see,” he replied, “that this vessel is so necessary to us. A few canoes will serve us better.”

“Canoes—for what?” was the demand of Le Genevois.

“Why, for ascending the rivers, for avoiding the fatigue of land travel, for bringing down our bullion.”

“Pshaw! You are at your silver mine again; but that is slow work. I prefer that which the Spaniard has already gathered; which he has run into solid bars and made ready for the king’s face. I prefer fighting for my silver, to digging for it.”

“Ay! fighting—no digging;” said Le Genré and he was echoed by other voices. But La Roquette was not to be silenced. His opinions were re-stated and insisted upon with no small vehemence, and the controversy grew warm as to the future course of the party—whether they should explore the land for silver ore, or the Spanish seas for bullion.

“Messieurs,” said one named Fourneaux, “permit me to say that you are counting your chickens before they are out of the shell. Why cumber our discussion with unnecessary difficulties? The first thing to consider is how to get our freedom. We can determine hereafter what use we shall make of it. There are men enough, or will be enough, when we have got rid of Laudonniere, to undertake both objects. Some may take the seas, and some the land; some to digging. Each man to his taste. All may be satisfied—there need be no restraint. The only matter now to be adjusted, is to be able to choose at all. Let us not turn aside from the subject.”

These sensible suggestions quieted the parties, and each proceeded to report progress. One made a return of the men he had got over, another of the arms in possession, and a third of ammunition. But the question finally settled down upon the fate of Laudonniere, and a few of his particular friends, the young D’Erlach being the first among them. On this subject, the conspirators not only all spoke, but they all spoke together. They were vehement enough, willing to destroy their enemy, but their words rather declared their anger, than any particular mode of effecting their object. At length Fourneaux again spoke.

“Messieurs,” said he, “you all seem agreed upon two things; the first is, that, before we can do anything, Laudonniere and that young devil, D’Erlach, must be disposed of; the second, that this is rather a difficult matter. It is understood that they may rally a sufficient force to defeat us—that we are not in the majority yet, though we hope to be so; and that a great number who are now slow to join us, will be ready enough, if the blow were once struck successfully. In this, I think, you all perfectly agree.”

“Ay—ay! There you are right—that’s it;” was the response of Le Genré and Stephen Le Genevois.

“Very well; now, as it is doubtful who are certainly the friends of Laudonniere, it is agreed that we must move against him secretly. Is there any difficulty in this? There are several ways of getting rid of an enemy without lifting dagger or pistol. Is not the magician here—the chemist, La Roquette?—has he no knowledge of certain poisons, which, once mingled in the drink of a captain, can shut his eyes as effectually as if it were done with bullet or steel? And if this fails, are there not other modes of contriving an accident? I have a plan now, which, with your leave, I think the very thing for our purpose. Laudonniere’s quarters, as you all know, stand apart from all the rest, with the exception of the little building occupied by the division of Le Genré, with which it is connected by the old bath-room. This bath-room is abandoned since Laudonniere has taken to the river. Suppose Le Genré here should, for safe-keeping, put a keg of gunpowder under the captain’s quarters? and suppose farther, that, by the merest mischance, he should suffer a train of powder to follow his footsteps, as he crawls from one apartment to the other; and suppose again, that, while Laudonniere sleeps, some careless person should suffer a coal of fire to rest, only for a moment, upon the train in the bath-house. By my life, I think such an accident would spare us the necessity of attempting the life of our beloved captain. It would be a sort of providential interposition.”

“Say no more! It shall be done!” said Le Genré. “I will do it!”

“Ay, should the other measure fail; but I am for trying the poison first;” said Fourneaux, “for such an explosion would send a few fragments of timber about other ears than those of the captain. He takes his coffee at sunrise. Can we not drug it?”

“Let that be my task;” said old Bon Pre, who had hitherto taken little part in this conference.

“You are the very man,” said Fourneaux. “He takes his coffee from your hands. La Roquette will provide the poison.”

“When shall this be done?” demanded Le Genré. “We can do nothing to-night. It will require time to-morrow to prepare the train.”

“Ay, that is your part; but may not Bon Pre do his to-morrow? and should he fail——”

“Why should he fail?” demanded La Roquette. “Let him but dress his coffee with my spices, and he cannot fail.”

“Yes,” replied Bon Pre, “but it is not always that Laudonniere drinks his coffee. If he happens to be asleep when I bring it, I do not wake him, but put it on the table by his bedside, and, very frequently, if it is cold when he wakes, he leaves it untasted.”

“Umph! but at all events, there is the other accident. That can be made to take effect at mid-night to-morrow—eh! what say you, Le Genré?”

“Without fail! It is sworn!”

Their plans being adjusted, the meeting was dissolved, and the parties separately dispersed, each to make his way back, as he best might, so as to avoid suspicion or detection, to Fort Caroline. They had scarcely disappeared when Alphonse D’Erlach emerged from the hollow of a cypress which stood upon the edge of the knoll where their conference had taken place.

[CHAPTER III.]

Alphonse D’Erlach was one of those remarkable persons who seem, in periods of great excitement, to be entirely superior to its influence. He appeared to be entirely without emotions. Though a mere youth, not yet firm in physical manhood, he was, in morals, endowed with a strength, a hardihood and maturity, which do not often fall to the lot of middle age. In times of difficulty, he possessed a coolness which enabled him to contemplate deliberately the approach of danger, and he was utterly beyond surprises. His conference with old Bon Pre, when they met again that night was remarkably illustrative of these characteristics.

“What shall we do?” demanded the old man.

“Your part is easily done,” was the reply—“you are simply to do nothing—to forbear doing. I understand your purpose in volunteering to do the poisoning. I will see Laudonniere in an hour. You will prepare the coffee—nay, let Fourneaux, or that fool of a magician himself, introduce the poison. Laudonniere will sleep, you understand.”

“But, Le Genré—the gunpowder!”

“I will see to that.”

“What will you do?”

“Nay, time must find the answer. I am not resolved; but, at all events, for the present, Laudonniere must know nothing. He must remain in ignorance.”

“Why?”

“For the best reason in the world. Did he guess what we know, he would be for arming himself and all around him—creating a confusion under the name of law—attempting arrests, and so proceeding as to give opportunities to the conspirators to do that boldly, which they are now content to do basely. I think we shall thwart them with their own weapons. Let us separate now. I will see Laudonniere but a few moments before I sleep.”

“Can you sleep to-night? I cannot! I shall hardly be able to sleep till the affair is over. I do not think, honestly speaking, that I have slept a good hour for the last week. I am certainly not conscious of having done so.”

“Nature provides for all such cases. For my part I never want sleep—I always have it. I can sleep in a storm and enjoy it just as well. The uproar of winds and seas never troubles me. If it does, it is only to lull me into sleep again. I am a philosopher without knowing it, and by accident. But come—we must part.”

The chamber of D’Erlach was in the same building with that of Laudonniere. They slept in adjoining apartments. D’Erlach purposely made some noise in approaching his, and Laudonniere cried out,

“Who is there?—Alphonse?”

“The same, sir.”

“Come in—where have you been at this hour; is it not very late?”

“Almost time for waking—an hour probably from dawn, though I know not exactly. But, suffer me to extinguish this light. We can talk as well in the dark.”

“What have you to say?” demanded Laudonniere, half rising at this preliminary.

“I have been getting some new lessons in chess from old Marchand.”

“Ah! what new lesson?” asked Laudonniere, whose passion for the game had prompted D’Erlach with the suggestion he made use of.

“Marchand, sir, is a most wonderful player. I have seen a great many persons skilled at the game, not to speak of yourself, and I am sure there is no one who can stand him. He absolutely laughs at my opposition. I wish you could play with him, sir.”

“I should like it, Alphonse,” replied the other, “but you know my position. This man, Marchand, is a turbulent person; scarcely respectful to me, and, if there be, as you think, a conspiracy on foot against me, he is at the head of it, be sure.”

“Not so;” said the other, quietly, but decisively; “not so. His bluntness is that of an honest man. His turbulence is that of self-esteem. He is above a base action, and, secure in his own character, he defies the scrutiny of superiority. I think you mistake him; at all events it is necessary that you should know him in chess. I am anxious to see you and him in conflict; and, if you will permit me, he shall bring his own men—for he will play with no other—he has his notions on the point—here, to-morrow night, when you will discover that he is not only a great player but a good fellow.”

“You are a singular person, Alphonse;” said Laudonniere, smiling. “What should put chess into your head at such a time, particularly when you say there is such danger?”

“The man who can play chess when danger threatens is the very man to discover it; and the conspirator is never more likely to become resolved in his purpose than when he finds his destined victim in a state of anxiety. I should rather my enemy see me at chess—provided I can see him—than that he should find me putting my arms in readiness. They may be conveniently under the table, while the chess-board is upon it; and while I am moving my pawn with one hand, I can prepare my pistol with the other. But, sir, with your further permission, I will bring Challus and Le Moyne to see the match. They are both passionately fond of the game, and Le Moyne plays well, though nothing to compare either with yourself or Marchand.”

“By the way, Alphonse, how is Le Moyne getting on with his pictures? It certainly was a strange idea of the Admiral, that of sending out, with such an expedition, painters of pictures and such persons. I can see the use of a mineralogist and botanist, but—these painters!”

“Le Moyne has made some very lovely pictures of the country. His landscapes are to the life, and he has that rare knowledge of the painter, which enables him to choose his point of view happily, and tells him how much to take in, and how much to leave out. The Admiral will be able to form a better idea of the country from the pictures of Le Moyne, than he will from the pebbles of Delille or the dried flowers and leaves of Serrier. Le Moyne shows him the rivers and the trees, the valleys and the hills; and, if his pictures get safely to France, the people there will envy us the paradise here which we are so little able to enjoy.”

Laudonniere heard the youth with half-shut eyes, and the dialogue languished on the part of the former; but D’Erlach seemed resolute to keep him wakeful, and suggested continually new provocatives to conversation, until his superior, absolutely worn out with exhaustion, bade him go to sleep himself or suffer him to do so. Alphonse smiled, and left the room perfectly satisfied, as he beheld the faint streakings of daylight gliding through the interstices between the logs of which the building was composed. In less than an hour, hearing a sound as of one entering, he hastily went out of his chamber, for he had neither undressed himself nor slept, and met Bon Pre, with the salver of coffee, about to go into the chamber of Laudonniere.

“Well, is it spiced? Has La Roquette furnished the drug?”

“His own hands put it in.”

“Very well; let us in together. Laudonniere is not likely to awaken soon, and I will remain with him ’till he does. If the coffee cools, and he offers not to drink, well. I will say nothing. It is best that he should know nothing ’till all’s over.”

“But the rest!” said Bon Pre, in a whisper.

“We must manage that, also, quite as well as this.”

“If you should want help?”

“We must find it. But the thing must go forward to the end. Remember that! This scoundrel must be suffered to burn his fingers.”

“Can you contrive it—you, alone?”

“I think so; but, Bon Pre, you are here, and Challus, and Le Moyne, and Beauvais and Marchand, and, perhaps, one or two more—true men upon whom we can rely—and these, mark me, must be in readiness. Of this you shall learn hereafter.”

They entered the chamber of Laudonniere. He still slept. Bon Pre placed the vessel of coffee beside him and disappeared. D’Erlach seated himself at a little distance from the couch. When Laudonniere wakened the liquor was cold. He laid it down again.

“What! you here, Alphonse; but you have been to bed?”

“I do not sleep as soundly as you. I left my chamber as old Bon Pre brought your coffee, and entered with him. You do not drink?”

“The coffee is cold.”

“It spoils your breakfast, too, I imagine. You do not eat heartily at breakfast.”

“No; dinner is my meal. But, Alphonse—did I dream, or did we not have some conversation about Marchand and chess-playing last night?”

“We did! This morning rather.”

“Is he the great player you describe him?”

“He is. I can think of none better.”

“Well—saucy as he is, I must meet him.”

“You permitted me to arrange for it, to-night. I had your consent to bring some amateurs.”

“Yes, I do recollect something of it—Le Moyne and—”

“Challus.”

“Very well—let them come; but they must be patient. If Marchand is such a player, I must be cool and cautious. I must beat him.”

“You will, but you will work for it. Marchand will keep you busy. And now, sir, there is another matter which I beg leave to bring to your remembrance. You remember the cypress canoe that lies upon the river banks, three miles or more above. It was claimed by the old chief Satouriova. We shall want it here for various, and, perhaps, important uses, when the ship sails. She will take most of your boats with her. Let me recommend that you send a detachment for this boat to-day. It should be an armed detachment, for the old chief is most certainly our enemy, and may be in the neighborhood. I would send Lieutenant Le Genré, as he lacks employment. I would give him his choice of six or eight companions, as, if he does not choose his own men, he might be apt to tyrannize over those who are friendly to you. Perhaps it would be better to give your orders early, that he should start at noon, as, at mid-day, the tide will serve for bringing the boat up without toil.”

“Why, Alphonse, you are very nice in your details. But, you are right, and the arrangement is a good one.”

“The sooner Le Genré receives his orders the more time for preparations;” said the youth indifferently.

“He shall have them as soon as I go below.”

By this time Laudonniere was dressed and they descended the court together.

“Has he drunk,” asked Le Genré anxiously, with Forneaux and La Roquette on each side, as they beheld Bon Pre descending from the chamber of Laudonniere with the vessel in his hand. The old man raised the silver lid of the coffee-pot, and showed the contents.

“Diable!” was the half-suppressed exclamation of La Roquette.

“Enough, comrade!” said Le Genré, in a whisper—“it remains for me.”

They separated, and entered, from different points, the area where Laudonniere stood.

“Lieutenant;” said the latter, as Le Genré appeared in sight—“Take six men at noon and go up to the bluff of the old chief Satouriova and bring away the cypress canoe of which we took possession some time since. Launch her and bring her up. The tide will serve at that hour. Let your men be armed to the teeth, and keep on your guard, for you may meet the old savage on your way.”

Le Genré touched his hat and retired.

“It is well,” said he to Fourneaux, whom he had chosen as one of his companions, “that the commission did not send me off at once. I must make my preparation quickly and before I go.”

Unseen and unsuspected, Alphonse D’Erlach was conscious all the while that the enemy was busy. But Laudonniere saw nothing to suspect, either in his countenance, or in the proceedings of the conspirator. At noon, Le Genré commenced his march, the only toils of which were over, when once the canoe was in their possession. The vessel was amply large to carry twenty soldiers as well as six, and the tide alone would bring them to the fortress in an hour or two.

The labors of Alphonse began as soon as Le Genré had disappeared with his party. The six men whom he had taken with him, were his confederates. The object of the youth was to operate in security, free from their surveillance. Still, his proceedings were conducted with great caution. Laudonniere neither suspected his industry nor its object. Arms and ammunition were accumulated in his chamber. Beauvais, and one or two brave and trusty friends, were placed there without the privity of any one, and the chess-party, including Marchand, Le Moyne and Challus, were properly apprized of the arrangements for the game between the former and Laudonniere. They were all amateurs, and there was good wine to be had on such occasions. They did not refuse. Alphonse took pains to noise about the expected meeting, and its object, and showed his own interest by betting freely upon his captain. He soon found those who were willing to risk their gold upon Marchand; and the lively Frenchmen of La Caroline, were very soon all agog for the approaching contest. But the labors of the youth did not cease here. He explored the cellar of the building in which he and Laudonniere slept, and there, as he expected, the arrangements had been already made for sending the Chief and himself by the shortest possible road to heaven. A keg of powder had been wedged in beneath the beams, with a train, following which, on hands and knees, Alphonse was conducted under the old bath-house, till he found himself beneath that of Le Genré. He did not disturb the train. He simply withdrew the keg of powder, carefully putting back, in the manner he found them, the old boxes and piles of wood, with which the incendiary had wedged it between the beams. This done, he rolled the keg before him over the path, by which it had evidently come, beneath the bath-house, and to that of Le Genré. Here he left it, still connected with the train of powder, but rather less distant from the match than Le Genré had ever contemplated. Perhaps, he sprinkled the train anew with fresh powder—it is certain that he went away secure and satisfied, long before Le Genré returned from his expedition, with the canoe of Satouriova.

[CHAPTER IV.]

At the hour appointed that night, for the contest between the chess players, Marchand, accompanied by Le Moyne and Challus, made his appearance in the apartments of René Laudonniere. Those of Alphonse D’Erlach were already occupied by four or five trusty fellows; and the arms which filled the apartment were ample for the defence of the party, while in the building, against any number assailing from without. The foresight of Alphonse had made all the necessary preparations, to encounter any foe, who might, after the explosion, attempt to carry their object in a bold way. He had no fear of this, but his habitual forethought led to the precautions. Meanwhile, of the designs against him and of the means taken for his safety, Laudonniere had not the slightest suspicion. His thoughts were occupied with one danger only—that of being beaten by Marchand. He valued himself upon his play—was one of those persons who never suffer themselves to be beaten when they can possibly help it—even by a lady. If our captain made any preparations, that day, it was for the supper that night, and the contest which was to follow it. His instruction, on the first matter, given to his cook, he retired to his chamber and exercised himself throughout the day in a series of studies in the game—planning new combinations to be brought into play, if possible, in the contest which was to follow. His welcome to Marchand declared the opinion which he himself entertained of his studies.

“I shall beat you, Marchand.”

“You can’t—you shan’t,” was the ready answer; “you’re not my match, captain.”

This answer piqued Laudonniere.

“We shall see—we shall see; not your match! Well! we shall see.”

We need not waste time upon the preliminaries of the contest. Enough that, about ten o’clock at night, we find the rival players placed at the table; the opposing pieces arrayed in proper order of battle, with Le Moyne and Challus, looking on with faces filled with expectation and curiosity. The face of Alphonse D’Erlach might also be perceptible, in a momentary glance over the shoulders of one or other of the parties; but his movements were capricious, and, passing frequently between his own and the chamber of Laudonniere, he only looked at intervals upon the progress of the game. Unhappily, the details of this great match, the several moves, and the final position of the remaining pieces, at the end of the contest, have not been preserved to us, though it is not improbable that the painter Le Moyne, as well as Challus, took notes of it. Enough, that Laudonniere put forth all his skill, exercised all his caution, played as slowly and heedfully as possible, and was——but we anticipate. Marchand, on the contrary, seemed never more indifferent. He scarcely seemed to look at the board—played promptly, even rapidly, and wore one of those cool, almost contemptuous, countenances which seemed to say, “I know myself and my enemy, and feel sure that I have no cause of fear.” That his opinions were of this character is beyond all question; but, though his countenance expressed as much, Laudonniere reassured himself with the reflection that Marchand was well understood to be one of those fortunate persons who know admirably how to disguise their real emotions, however deeply they may be excited or anxious. Laudonniere’s self-esteem was not deficient, in the absence of better virtues. He had his vanity at chess, and the game was so played, that the issue continued doubtful, except possibly to one of the spectators, almost to the last moment. Leaving the parties at the board, silent and studious, let us turn to the counsels of the conspirators, whom we must not suppose to be idle all this time.

They had assembled—half a dozen of them at least—and were in close conference at the quarters of La Roquette, at the opposite extremity of the fortress. They were all excited to the highest pitch of expectation. The hour was drawing nigh for the attempt, and all eyes were turned upon Le Genré.

“It is half past eleven,” he exclaimed, “and the thing is to be done. But what is to be done, if those men whom we hold doubtful should take courage, and, in the moment of uproar take arms against us? We have made no preparations for this event. Now, this firing the train from my lodgings is but the work of a boy. It may be done by any body. It is more fitting that, with six or eight select men, well armed, I should be in reserve, ready to encounter resistance should there be any after the explosion.”

Villemain, a youth of twenty-two, a dark, sinister-looking person, slight and short, promptly volunteered to fire the train. His offer was at once accepted.

“It is half-past eleven, you say? I will go at once,” said Villemain.

“We will go with you,” cried La Roquette and Stephen Le Genevois in the same breath.

“No! no! not so!” said Le Genré. “You have each duties to perform. You must scatter yourselves as much as possible, so as to increase the alarm at the proper moment. There will be little danger, I grant you, with Laudonniere, and that imp of the devil, D’Erlach, out of the way; but it must be prepared for. Once show the rest that these are done for, and we shall do as we think proper.”

“What a fortunate thing for us is this game of chess. It disposes of the only persons we could not so easily have managed;” said Fourneaux. “Boxes them up, as one may say, so that they only need a mark upon them to be ready for shipment.”

“And yet, somehow, I could wish,” said Le Genevois, “that Marchand were not among them. I like that fellow. He is so bold, so blunt, and plays his game just as if it were his religion.”

“I could wish to save the painter, if any,” remarked La Roquette; “but at all events, we shall inherit his pictures.”

“Bah! let the devil take him and them together! Why bother about such stuff; what’s his pictures of the country to us, when the country itself is our own, to keep or to quit just as it pleases us? We are wasting time. Where’s Villemain?”

“Here—ready!”

“Depart, then,” said Le Genré; “the sooner you light the match after you reach my quarters, the better. We shall be ready for the blast.”

“He is gone!” said Fourneaux.

“Let us follow, and each to his task;” cried Le Genré. “Each of you take care of the flying timbers; find you covers as you may. My men are mustered behind the old granary. Adieu, my friends,—the time has come!”

With these words, the company dispersed, each seeking his several position and duty. Let us adjourn our progress to the chamber of Laudonniere, where that meditative gamester still sits deliberate, with knotted brow, watching the movements of Marchand.

[CHAPTER V.]

The game was still unfinished. The repeater of Alphonse D’Erlach was in his hand, as he entered from his own chamber, and threw a hasty glance across the chess-board. There Laudonniere sate, seeing nothing but the pieces before him. He was in the brownest of studies. His thoughts were wholly with the game, which had the power of contracting his forehead with a more serious anxiety than possibly all the cares of his colony had done. His opponent was the very personification of well-satisfied indifference. He leaned back in his seat, smiling grimly, and with a wink, now and then, to those who watched and waited upon the movements of Laudonniere. Alphonse D’Erlach smiled also. The slightest shade of anxiety might be observed upon his brow, and his lips were more rigidly compressed than usual. He leaned quietly towards the board, and remarked indifferently—

“I see you are nearly at the close of your game.”

“Indeed!” said Laudonniere, with some sharpness in his accents,—“and pray Monsieur Alphonse, how do you see that?”

“You will finish by twelve,” was the reply. “I see that it now lacks but a few minutes of that hour.”

“Pshaw, Monsieur!” exclaimed Laudonniere—“you talk illogically, you know nothing about it. Chess is one of those games——”

And he proceeded to expatiate upon the latent resources of the game, and how a good player might retrieve a bad situation in the last perilous extremity, by a lucky diversion.

“But there is no such extremity now,” he continued to say, “and it is not improbable that we shall keep up the struggle till morning. The game cannot finish under an hour, let him do his best, even if he conquers in the end, which is very far from certain, though I confess he has some advantages.”

“We shall see,” was the reply, as Alphonse left the room, and returned in a few moments after. It was not observed by the parties, so intent were they on the game, that he now made his appearance in complete armor, nor did they hear the bustle in the adjoining apartment. Alphonse still held his watch in his grasp.

“The game is nearly finished. According to my notion, you have but two minutes for it.”

“Two! how!” said Laudonniere, not lifting his head.

“But one!”

“There!” said Laudonniere, making the move that Marchand had anticipated. Marchand bent forward with extended finger to the white queen, when a shade of uneasiness might be traced by a nice observer in the countenance of D’Erlach. His lips were suddenly and closely compressed. The hand of the timepiece was upon the fatal minute. On a sudden, a hissing sound was heard, and, in the next instant, the house reeled and quivered as if torn from its foundation. A deep roar followed, as if the thunderbolt had just broke at their feet, and the whole was succeeded by a deafening ringing sound in all their ears.

“Jesus—mercy!” exclaimed Laudonniere—“The magazine!”

“Checkmate!” cried Marchand, as he set down the white queen in the final position which secured the game.

“Ay! it is checkmate to more games than one! Gentlemen, to arms, and follow me!” exclaimed Alphonse. “We are safe now!”

[CHAPTER VI.]

They rushed out, and were immediately joined by the select party from the chamber of D’Erlach, all armed to the teeth. Another party, under Bon Pre, of which none knew but the same person, encountered them when they emerged into the Place D’Armes. Alphonse led the way with confidence, and, while all was uproar and confusion below—while men were seen scattered throughout the area, uncertain where to turn, the sharp, stern voice of command was heard in their midst, in tones that forbade the idea of surprise. The drums rolled. The faithful were soon brought together, and presented such an orderly and strong array, that conspiracy would have been confounded by their appearance, even was there nothing else in the event to palsy their enterprise. But their engine had exploded in their own house. The dwelling of Laudonniere was only shaken by the explosion. It was that of Le Genré which was overthrown, and was now in flames. Its blazing timbers were soon scattered, and the flames extinguished, when the body of the conspirator was drawn forth, blackened and mangled, from the place where he had met his death; still grasping between his fingers the fragment of match with which he had lighted the train to his own destruction. The conspirators, in an instant, felt all their feebleness. Already were the trusted soldiers of Laudonniere approaching them. Baffled in the scheme from which they had promised themselves so much, and apprehending worse dangers, they lost all confidence in themselves and one another; and Le Genré, apprehending everything, seizing the moment of greatest confusion, leaped the walls of the fortress, and succeeded in escaping to the woods. The other leading conspirators, Le Genevois, La Fourneaux, and La Roquette, at first determined not to fly, not yet dreaming that they were the objects of suspicion; but when they beheld Bon Pre, late one of their associates, marshalling one of the squads of Laudonniere, they at once conjectured the mode and the extent of the discovery. They saw that they had been betrayed, and soon followed the example of Le Genré. In regard to the inferior persons concerned in the conspiracy, D’Erlach said nothing to Laudonniere, and counselled Bon Pre to silence also. He was better pleased that they should wholly escape than that the colony should lose their services, and easily persuaded himself that in driving Le Genré and his three associates from the field, he had effectually paralyzed the spirit of faction within the fortress. He had made one mistake, however, but for which he might not have been so easily content. Not anticipating the change in the plan of the conspirators, by which it had been confided to Villemain to fire the train instead of Le Genré, he had naturally come to the conclusion that the only victim was the chief conspirator. He was soon undeceived, and his chagrin and disappointment were great accordingly.

“Whose carcass is this?” demanded Laudonniere, as they threw out the mangled remains of the incendiary from the scene of ruin.

“That of your lieutenant, Le Genré,” was the answer of D’Erlach, given without looking at the object.

“Not so!” was the immediate reply of more than one of the persons present. “This is quite too slight and short a person for Le Genré.”

“Who can it be, then?” said D’Erlach, looking closely at the body, which was torn and blackened almost beyond identification. The face of the corpse was washed, and with some difficulty it was recognized as that of Philip Villemain, a thoughtless youth, whom levity rather than evil nature had thrown into the meshes of conspiracy.

“But what does it all mean, Alphonse?” demanded the bewildered Laudonniere, not yet recovered from his astonishment and alarm.

“Treason! as I told you!” was the reply. “There lies one of the traitors—the poor tool of a cunning which escapes. I had looked to make his principal perish by his own petard. But we must look to this hereafter. We must stir the woods to-morrow. They will shelter the arch traitor for a season only. Enough now, captain, that we are safe. Let us in to our fish. Those trout were of the finest, and I somehow have a monstrous appetite for supper.”

[XIII.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

The policy of Laudonniere, influenced by the judgment of Alphonse D’Erlach suffered the proceedings of the conspiracy to pass without farther scrutiny. His chief care was to provide against future attempts of the same character. He had been for some time past engaged, among other labors, in putting the fortress in the best possible order, and he now strenuously addressed all his efforts to the completion of this work. A portion of his force was employed in sawing plank, and getting out timber; others were engaged in making brick for buildings, at or near an Indian village called Saravahi, which stood about a league and a half from the fort, upon an arm of the same river; others were employed in gathering food, and still other parties in exploring the Indian settlements for traffic. Le Genré, meanwhile, wrote to Laudonniere, in repentant language, from the neighboring forests. He had taken shelter among the red-men,—probably of the tribes of Satouriova, at present the enemy of the Frenchmen. He admitted that he deserved death, but declared his sorrow for his crime and entreated mercy. But his professions did not soothe or deceive his superior. About this time, a vessel with supplies arrived from France which enabled Laudonniere to send despatches home, containing a full narrative of the events which had passed. It was the misfortune of the garrison to have received an addition by the arrival of this vessel. Six or seven of the most refractory of the soldiers of the garrison were put on board ship, and others left in their place with our captain. These proved in the end, quite as mischievous as those which he had dismissed. They leagued with the old discontents of the colony. They stole the barks and boats of the garrison, ran away to sea, and became picaroons, seizing, among others, upon a Spanish vessel of the Island of Cuba, from which they gathered a quantity of gold and silver. Laudonniere proceeded to build other boats; which were seized when finished by the leaders of a new conspiracy, among whom were La Fourneaux, Stephen le Genevois, and others who were distinguished in this manner before. They finally seized Laudonniere in person, and extorted from him a privateer’s commission. Then, compelling him to yield up artillery, guns, and the usual munitions of war, together with Trenchant, his most faithful pilot, they hurried away to sea under the command of one of his sergeants, Bertrand Conferrant, while La Croix became their ensign. Thus was the commandant of La Caroline stripped of every vessel of whatever sort, his stores plundered, and his garrison greatly lessened by desertions, while select detachments of his men, under favorite lieutenants, were engaged in new explorations among the red-men of the country. Our detailed narrative of these proceedings will employ the following chapters.

[XIV.]
THE SEDITION AT LA CAROLINE.—

CHAP. I.
MOUVEMENT.

There was bustle of no common sort in the fortress of La Caroline. The breezes of September had purged and relieved of its evil influences the stagnant atmosphere of summer. The sick of the garrison had crawled forth beneath the pleasant shadows of the palms, that grew between the fortress and the river banks, and there were signs of life and animation in the scene and among its occupants, which testified to the favorable change which healthier breezes and more encouraging moral influences, were about to produce among the sluggish inhabitants of our little colony. There were particular occasions for movement apart from the cheering aspects of the season. Enterprise was afoot with all its eagerness and hope. Men were to be seen, in armor, hurrying to and fro, busy in the work of preparation, while Monsieur Laudonniere himself, just recovered from a severe illness, conspicuous in the scene, appeared to have cast aside no small portion of his wonted apathy and inactivity. He was in the full enjoyment of his authority. He had baffled the disease which preyed upon him, and had defeated the conspiracy by which his life and power had been threatened. He was now disposed to think lightly of the dangers he had passed, though his having passed them, in safety, had tended greatly to encourage his hope and to stimulate his adventure. He now stood, in full uniform, at the great gate of the fortress, reading at intervals from a paper in his grasp, while extending his orders to his lieutenants. He was evidently preparing to make considerable use of his authority. It is, perhaps, permitted to a Gascon to do so, at all seasons, even when he owes his security to better wits than his own, and has achieved his successes in his own despite. Our worthy captain of the Huguenot garrison upon the river of May, was not the less disposed to insist upon his authority, because it had been saved to him without his own participation. It might have been difficult, under any circumstances, to persuade him of that, and certainly, the conviction, even if he had entertained it, would, at this juncture, have done nothing to dissipate or lessen the confident hope which prompted his present purposes. The present was no ordinary occasion. It was as an ally of sovereigns that Laudonniere was extending his orders. He had, already, on several occasions, permitted his lieutenants to take part in the warfare between the domestic chieftains, and he was now preparing to engage in a contest which threatened to be of more than common magnitude and duration. A warfare that seldom knew remission had been long waged between the rival warriors, whose several dominions embraced the western line of the great Apalachian chain. Already had the Huguenots fought on the side of the great potentate Olata Utina, commonly called Utina, against another formidable prince called Potanou. He was now preparing to second with arms the ambition of Kings Hostaqua and Onathaqua, who were preparing for the utter annihilation of the power of the formidable Potanou. Of the two former kings, such had been the account brought to Laudonniere, that he at first imagined them to be Spaniards. They were described as going to battle in complete armor, with their breasts, arms and thighs covered with plates of gold, and with a helmet or headpiece of the same metal. Their armor defied the arrows of the savages, and proved the possession of a degree of civilization very far superior to anything in the experience or customs of the red-men. Subsequently it was ascertained that they were Indians like the rest, differing from the rest, however, in this other remarkable trait, that, while all the other tribes painted their faces red, these warriors of Hostaqua and Onathaqua employed black only to increase the formidable appearance which they made in battle. The golden armor used by this people, and the excess of the precious metals which this habit implied, were sufficient inducements for our Huguenot leader to attempt his present enterprise. It had furnished the argument of the conspirators against him, that he done so little towards the discovery of the precious metals; having provoked that cupidity, which his necessities alone compelled him to refuse to gratify. His error, at the present moment was, in employing other than the discontents of his colony in making the discovery. But of this hereafter.

Laudonniere had not been wholly neglectful, even while he seemed to sleep upon his arms, of the reported treasures of the country. He had sent two of his men, La Roche Ferrière a clever young ensign, and another, to dwell in the dominions of King Utina, and these two had been absent all the summer, engaged in rambling about the country. Others, as we have seen, were sent in other directions. Lieutenant Achille D’Erlach, the brother of the favorite Alphonse, had been absent in this way, during all the period when Laudonniere was threatened by conspiracy; and it was now decreed that, even while his brother continued absent, Alphonse should depart also. The eagerness of Laudonniere would admit of no delay. His curiosity had just received a new impulse from a present which had been sent him by Hostaqua, consisting of a “Luzerne’s skinne full of arrows, a couple of bowes, foure or five skinnes painted after their manner, and a chaine of silver weighing about a pounde weight.” These came with overtures of friendship and alliance, which the Huguenot chief did not deem it polite to disregard. He sent to the savage king, “two whole sutes of apparell, with certain cutting hookes or hatchets,” and prepared to follow up his gifts, by sending a small detachment of picked soldiers, under Alphonse D’Erlach

, still more thoroughly to fathom the secrets of the country, but ostensibly to unite with Hostaqua and his ally against the potent savage Potanou, who was described as a man of boundless treasures, also.

The bearer of these presents from Hostaqua was an inferior chieftain named Oolenoe. This cunning savage, of whom we shall know more hereafter, did not fail to perceive that the ruling passion of our Huguenots was gold. It was only, therefore, to mumble the precious word in imperfect Gallic—to extend his hand vaguely in the direction of the Apalachian summits, and cry “gold—gold!” and the adroit orator of the Lower Cherokees, on behalf of his tribe or nation, readily commanded the attention of his gluttonous auditors. His arguments

and entreaties proved irresistible, and the present earnestness of Laudonniere, at La Caroline, was in preparing for this expedition. To conquer Potanou, and to obtain from Hostaqua the clues to the precious region where the gold was reputed to grow, with almost a vegetable nature, was the motive for arming his European warriors. It was also his policy, borrowed from that of the Spaniards, to set the native tribes upon one another;—a fatal policy in the end, since they must invariably, having first destroyed the inferior, turn upon the superior, through the irresistible force of habit. But, even with the former object, we do not perceive that there was any necessity to take any undue pains in its attainment. Tribes that live by hunting only, must unavoidably come into constant collision. No doubt the natural tendency of the savage might be stimulated and made more inveterate and active, by European arts; and Laudonniere, however Huguenot, was too little the Christian to forbear them. With this policy he proposed to justify himself to those who were averse to the present enterprise. One of these was his favorite, Alphonse D’Erlach, the youth to whom he owed his life. This young man, on the present occasion, approached him where he stood, eager and excited with the business of draughting the proper officers and men for the present hopeful expedition. At a little distance, stood the stern old savage, Oolenoe, grimly looking on with a satisfaction at his heart, which was not suffered to appear on his immovable features. The artist of the statuesque might have found in his attitude and appearance, an admirable model. While his eye caught and noted every look and movement, and his ear every known and unknown sound and accent, the calm unvarying expression of his glance and muscles was that of the most perfect and cool indifference. They only did not sleep. He leaned against a sapling that stood some twenty paces removed from the entrance of the fort, a loose cotton tunic about his loins, and his bow and quiver suspended from his shoulders, in a richly-stained and shell-woven belt, the ground work of which was cotton also. A knife, the gift of Laudonniere, was the only other weapon which he bore; but this was one of those very precious acquisitions which the Indian had already purposed to bury with him.

As Alphonse D’Erlach approached his commander, a close observer might have seen in the eyes of Oolenoe, an increased brilliancy of expression. The sentiment which it conveyed was not that of love. It is with quick, intelligent natures to comprehend, as by an instinct of their own, in what quarter to find sympathies, and whence their antipathies are to follow. Oolenoe had soon discovered that D’Erlach was not friendly to his objects. With this conviction there arose another feeling, that of contempt, with which the extreme youth, and general effeminacy of the young man’s appearance, had inspired him. He did not seem the warrior,—and the Indian is not apt to esteem the person of whose conduct in battle he has doubts. Besides, the costume of D’Erlach was that of dandyism; and, though the North American savage was no humble proficient in the arts of the toilet, yet these are never ventured upon until the reputation of the hunter and warrior have been acquired. Of the abilities of D’Erlach, in these respects, Oolenoe had no knowledge; and his doubts, therefore, and disrespects, were the natural result of his conviction that the youth was suspicious of, and hostile to, himself. Of these feelings, D’Erlach knew nothing, and perhaps cared as little. His features, as he drew nigh to Laudonniere, were marked with more gravity and earnestness than they usually expressed; and, touching the wrist of his commander, as he approached him, he beckoned him somewhat farther from his followers:

“It is not too late,” said he, “to escape this arrangement.”

“And why seek to escape it, Alphonse?” replied the other, with something like impatience in his tones.

“For the best of reasons. You can have no faith in this savage. If there be this abundance of gold in the country, why brings he so little. Where are his proofs? But this is not all. But lately our enemy, jealous of our presence, and only respectful because of his fears, we can have no confidence in him, as an ally. He will lead the men whom you give him, into ambuscade—into remote lands, where provision will be found with difficulty,—require to be fought for at every step, and where the best valor in the world, and the best conduct will be unavailing for their extrication.”

“To prevent this danger, Alphonse, you shall have command of the detachment,” said Laudonniere, with a dry accent, and a satirical glance of the eye.

“I thank you, sir, for this proof of confidence,” replied the other, no ways disquieted, “and shall do my best to avoid or prevent the evils that I apprehend from it; but——”

“I have every confidence in your ability to do so, Alphonse,” said the other, interrupting him in a tone which still betrayed the annoyance which he felt from the expostulations of his favorite. The latter proceeded, after a slight but respectful inclination of the head.

“But there is another consideration of still greater importance. Your security in La Caroline is still a matter of uncertainty. You know not the extent of the late conspiracy. You know not who are sound, and who doubtful, among your men. Le Genré, Fourneaux, Le Genevois, and La Roquette, are still in the woods. You are weakening yourself, lessening the resources of the fortress, and may, at any moment——”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Laudonniere, with renewed impatience. “You are only too suspicious, Alphonse. You make too much of this conspiracy. It does not seem to me that it was ever so dangerous. At all events, the danger is over, the ringleaders banished and in the woods, and will rot there, if the wolves do not devour them. They, at least, shall not be made wolves of for me.”

D’Erlach bowed in silence. His mouth was sealed against all further expostulation. He saw that it was hopeless—that his captain had got a fixed idea, and men of few ideas, making one of them a favorite, are generally as immovable as death. Besides, Alphonse saw that the obligations which he had so lately conferred upon his commander, in baffling the conspiracy of Le Genré, by his vigilance, had somewhat wounded his amour propre. It is a misfortune, sometimes, to have been too useful. The consciousness of a benefit received, is apt to be very burdensome to the feeble nature. The quick instinct of Alphonse D’Erlach readily perceived the condition of his captain’s heart. A momentary pause ensued. Lifting his cap, he again addressed him, but with different suggestions.

“Am I to hope, sir, that you really design to honor me with this command?”

“Certainly, if you wish it, Alphonse.”

“I certainly wish it, sir, if the expedition be resolved on.”

“It is resolved on,” said Laudonniere, with grave emphasis.

“I shall then feel myself honored with the command.”

“Be it yours, lieutenant. In one hour be ready to receive your orders.”

“One minute, sir, will suffice for all personal preparation;” and, with the formal customs of military etiquette, the two officers bowed, as the younger of them withdrew to his quarters. In one hour, he was on the march with twenty men, accompanied by Oolenoe and his dusky warriors.

[CHAPTER II.—THE OUTLAWS.]

The little battalion of Alphonse D’Erlach marched along the edge of a wood which skirted a pleasantly rising ground—one of those gentle undulations which serve to relieve the monotonous levels of the lower regions of Florida. Deep was the umbrage—dense in its depth of green, and dark in its voluminous foliage, the thicket which overlooked their march. Their eyes might not penetrate the enclosure, from which eyes of hate were yet looking forth upon them. The wood concealed the outlaws who had lately made their escape from La Caroline, after the exposure of their conspiracy. They had not ceased to be conspirators. Bold, bad men—sleepless discontents, yearning for plunder and power—the defeat of their schemes, and the necessity of their sudden flight from the scene of their operations, had not lessened the bitterness of their feelings, nor their propensity to evil. Fierce were the glances which they shot forth upon the small troop which D’Erlach conducted before their eyes on his purposes of doubtful policy. Little did he dream what eyes were looking upon him. Could they have blasted with a glance or curse, he had been transformed with all his followers where he passed. But the three conspirators had no power for more than curses. These, though “not loud, were deep.” With clenched fists extended towards him on his progress, they devoted him to the wrath of a power which they did not themselves possess; and, watching his course through the parted foliage, until he was fairly out of sight, they delivered themselves, in muttered execrations, of the hate with which his very sight had inspired them. Stephen Le Genevois was the first to speak. He was a stalwart savage, of broad chest, black beard, and most dauntless expression.

“Death of my soul!” was his exclamation; “but that we have lost so much by the game, it were almost merry to laugh at the way in which that brat of a boy has outwitted us. We have been children in his hands.”

“He is now in ours,” said La Roquette, gloomily.

“Aye, if the Indian keeps his faith,” was the desponding comment of Fourneaux.

“And why should he not keep faith,” said Le Genevois. “He has good reason for it. When did the hope of plunder fail to secure the savage?”

“You must give him blood with it,” responded Fourneaux.

“Aye, it must be seasoned. He must have blood,” echoed La Roquette.

“Well, and why not? Do we not give him blood? will he not have this imp of Satan in his power? may he not feed on him if he will? Aye, and upon all his twenty!” exclaimed Le Genevois, fiercely.

“True—but——”

“But, but, but—ever with your buts! You lack confidence, courage, heart, Fourneaux—you despair too easily! I wonder how you ever became a conspirator!”

“I sometimes wonder myself. Ask La Roquette, there. He can tell you. I owe it all to his magic.”

“What says your magic now, Roquette—have you any signs for us?”

“Aye, good ones! We shall have what we desire. I have seen—I have said! Be satisfied.” This was spoken with due solemnity by the person in whom the credulity of his companions had found sources of power unknown to their experience.

“But why not show us what you have seen? Speak plainly, man. Out with it, and leave that mysterious shaking of the head, which has really nothing in it.”

Such was the language of the more manly and impetuous Le Genevois. It provoked only a fierce glance from the magician.

“All in good time,” said the latter. “Be patient. We shall soon hear from Oolenoe.”

“Good! and you have seen that we shall be successful?” demanded Fourneaux.

“We shall be successful.”

“That will depend upon ourselves, rather than upon your visions, I’m thinking,” said Le Genevois. “We must have courage, my friends. The signs are not good when we call for signs. If we despond, we are undone.”

“Stay—hark!” said Fourneaux, interrupting him eagerly. “I hear sounds.”

“The wind only.”

“No!—hist.”

They bent forward in the attitude of listeners, but heard nothing. They had begun again to speak, when an Indian, covered with leaves artfully glued upon his person, stood suddenly among them. They started to their feet and grasped their weapons.

“Ami!” was the single word of the intruder, at he stretched out his arms in signification of friendship.

“Said I not?” demanded the magician, confidently. “This is our man.”

His assurance was confirmed by the savage, who spoke the French sufficiently to make himself understood. He came from Oolenoe, and a few sentences sufficed to place both parties in possession of their mutual plans. The outlaws were not without friends in La Caroline. They were to find their way once more into that fortress. They had no fears from the sagacity of Laudonniere, during the absence of the youthful but vigilant D’Erlach; and, for the latter, he was to be disposed of by Oolenoe. And now the question arose, who should venture to “bell the cat?” who should venture himself within the walls of La Caroline?

“Ah!” said one of the conspirators, “if we could only bring Le Genré to his senses. He would be the man.”

“Speak nothing of him,” cried Le Genevois, quickly; “he is no longer a man. He is a priest. That defeat has killed his courage. He repents, and is constantly writing to Laudonniere for mercy and pity, and all that sort of thing. He must not know what we design.”

“Who has seen him lately?”

“I know not. He was crossed to the other side of the river by Captain Bourdet in his boats. He crossed to seek refuge with the people of Mollova.”

“He is not far, be sure. He will linger close to the fort, in the hope to get back to it, and, finally, to France. He is not to be thought of in this expedition.”

“Who then?” was the demand of Le Genevois. “Somebody must muzzle the cannon. Who? Who will take the peril and the glory of the enterprise, and in the character of an Indian will put his head in the jaws of the danger?”

The question remained unanswered. Fourneaux excused himself on a variety of pleas, not one of which would be satisfactory with a brave man. La Roquette declared that his magical powers were always valueless when any restraint was set upon his person; in other words, he could better perform his incantations when the danger threatened everybody but himself. He certainly would not think of risking them within La Caroline, while Laudonniere was in power. Besides “he had no arts of imitation. He had no abilities as an actor.” Stephen Le Genevois smiled as he listened to their pleas and excuses.

“My friends!” he exclaimed. “Did you think that I would suffer a good scheme to be spoiled by such as you? I but waited that you should speak. This adventure is mine, and I claim it. I will return to La Caroline. I will play the spy, and take the danger. Mark ye, now, comrade!”—addressing the Indian,—“prepare me for the business. Clothe me in copper, and make me what you please. I have no beauty that you need fear to spoil.”

Thus saying, he threw off, with an air of scornful recklessness, the costume which he wore. Wild was the toilet, and wilder still the guise of our buoyant Frenchman. In an open space within the thicket, beneath a great moss-covered oak, which wore the beard of three centuries upon his breast, the chief conspirator yielded himself to the hands of the Indian. A keen knife shore from his head the thick black hair with which it was covered. A thin ridge alone was suffered to remain upon the coronal region, significant of the war-lock of that tribe of Apalachia, to which Oolenoe belonged. The small golden droplets which hung from the Frenchman’s ears, were made to give way to a more massive ornament of shells, cunningly strung upon a hoop of copper wire. His body, stripped to the buff, was then stained with the brown juices of a native plant, which, with other dye-stuffs, the Indian produced from his wallet. His brow was then dyed with deeper hues of red—his cheeks tinged with spots of the darkest crimson, while a heavy circlet of black, about his eyes, gave to his countenance the aspect of a demon rather than that of a man. This done, the savage displayed a small pocket mirror before the eyes of the metamorphosed outlaw. With an oath of no measured emphasis, the Frenchman bounded to his feet, his eyes flashing with a strange delight.

“It will do!” he shouted. “It likes me well! Were I now in France, there would be no wonder beside myself. I should stir the envy of the men—I should win the hearts of the women. I should be the loveliest monster. Ho! Ho! Would that my voice would suit my visage!”

A cotton tunic with which the Indian had provided himself, was wrapped round the loins of our new-made savage, his feet were cased with moccasins, and his legs with leggins made of deerskin—a bow and quiver at his shoulder—a knife in his girdle—a string of peäg or shells about his neck;—and his toilet was complete. That very night, accompanied by his Indian comrade, Stephen Le Genevois entered the walls of La Caroline, bearing messages from Oolenoe and Alphonse D’Erlach—the latter of which, we need scarcely say, were wholly fraudulent. The credulous Laudonniere, delighted with assurances of success on the part of his lieutenant, was not particularly heedful of the nature of the evidence thus afforded him, and laid his head on an easy pillow, around which danger hovered in almost visible forms, while he, unconsciously, dreamed only of golden conquests, and discoveries which were equally to result in fame and fortune. His guardian angel was withdrawn. His mortified vanity had driven from his side the only person whose vigilance might have saved him. His own unregulated will had yielded him, bound, hand and foot, into the power of a relentless enemy.

[CHAPTER III.—THE MIDNIGHT ARREST.]

Sweet were the slumbers of Monsieur Laudonniere, commandant of the fortress of La Caroline. Anxious was the wakening of Stephen Le Genevois, the conspirator, who, in garbing himself after the fashion of the Indian, had not succeeded in clothing his mind in the stolid and stoic nature of his savage companion. The conspirators watched together in one of the inner chambers of the fortress. They had not restricted themselves to watching merely. Already had Le Genevois made his purpose known to one of his ancient comrades. The name of this person was La Croix. He was one of the trusted followers of Laudonniere, whose superior cunning alone had saved him from suspicion, even that of D’Erlach, at the detection of the former conspiracy. La Croix, in the absence of the latter, was prepared for more decisive measures. He was one of those whose insane craving for gold had surrendered him, against all good policy, to the purposes of the conspirators. He was now in charge of the watch. As captain of the night, he led the way to the gates, which, at midnight, he cautiously threw open to the two companions of Le Genevois. Fourneaux and Roquette had been waiting for this moment. They were admitted promptly and in silence. Darkness was around them. The fortress slept,—none more soundly than its commander. In silence the outlaws led by La Croix, all armed to the teeth, made their way to his chamber. The sentinel who watched before it, joined himself to their number. They entered without obstruction and without noise; and, ere the eyes of the sleeper could unclose to his danger, or his lips cry aloud for succor, his voice was stifled in his throat by thick bandagings of silk, and his limbs fastened with cords which, at every movement of his writhing frame, cut into the springing flesh. He was a prisoner in the very fortress, where, but that day, he exulted in the consciousness of complete command. A light, held above his eyes, revealed to him the persons of his assailants;—the supposed Indians, in the outlaws whom he had banished, and others, whom, for the first time, he knew as enemies. When his eyes were suffered to take in the aspects of the whole group, he was addressed, in his own tongue, by the leading conspirator.

“René Laudonniere,” said Stephen Le Genevois, in his bitter tones, “you are in our power. What prevents that we put you to death as you merit, and thus revenge our disgrace and banishment?”

The wretched man, thus addressed, had no power to answer. The big tears gathered in his eyes and rolled silently down his cheeks. He felt the pang of utter feebleness upon him.

“We will take the gag from your jaws, if you promise to make no outcry. Nod your head in token that you promise.”

The prisoner had no alternative but to submit. He nodded, and the kerchief was taken from his jaws.

“You know us, René Laudonniere?” demanded the conspirator.

“Stephen Le Genevois, I know you!” was the answer.

“’Tis well! You see to what you have reduced me. You have held a trial upon me in my absence. You have sentenced me and my companions to banishment. You have made us outlaws, and we are here! You see around you none but those on whom you have exercised your tyranny. What hope have you at their hands and mine? Savage as you have made me in aspect, what should prevent that I show myself equally savage in performance. The knife is at your throat, and there is not one of us who is not willing to execute justice upon you. Are you prepared to do what we demand?”

“What is it?”

“Read this paper.”

A light was held close to the eyes of the prisoner, and the paper placed near enough for perusal. The instrument was a commission of piracy—a sort of half-legal authority, common enough in that day, to the marine of all European countries, under maxims of morality such as made the deeds of Drake, and Hawkins, and other British admirals, worthy of all honor, which, in our less chivalric era, would consign them very generally to the gallows.

As Laudonniere perused the document, he strove to raise himself, as with a strong movement of aversion;—but the prompt grasp of Genevois fastened him down to the pillow.

“No movement, or this!”—showing the dagger. “Have you read?”

“I will not sign that paper!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.

“Will you not?”

“Never!”

“You have heard the alternative!”

Laudonniere was silent.

“You do not speak! Beware, René Laudonniere. We have no tender mercies! We are no children! We are ready for any crime. We have already incurred the worst penalties, and have nothing to fear. But you can serve us, living, quite as effectually as if dead. We do not want your miserable fortress. We are not for founding colonies. It is your ships that we will take, and your commission. We will spare your life for these. Beware! Let your answer square with your necessities.”

“Genevois!” said the prisoner, “even this shall be pardoned—you shall all be pardoned—if you will forego your present purpose.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the person addressed. “This to me! I scorn your pardon as I do your person! Speak to what concerns you, and what is left for you to do. Speak, and quickly, too, for the dawn must not find us here.”

“I will not sign!” said the prisoner, doggedly.

“Then you die!” and the dagger was uplifted.

“Strike—why do you stop?” exclaimed Fourneaux; “we can slay him, and forge the paper.”

His threatening looks and attitude, with the stern air which overspread the visage of Genevois, and, indeed, of all around him contributed to overcome the resolution of the wretched commander. Besides, a moment’s reflection served to satisfy him, that the conspirators, having gone too far to recede, would not scruple at the further crime which they threatened.

“Will my life be spared if I sign? Have I your oath, Stephen Le Genevois? I trust none other.”

“By G—d and the Blessed Saviour! as I hope to be saved, René Laudonniere, you shall have your life and freedom!”

“Undo my hands and give me the paper.”

“The right hand only,” said Fourneaux, with his accustomed timidity.

“Pshaw, unbind him!” exclaimed Genevois; “unbind him, wholly. There, René Laudonniere, you are free!”

“I cannot forgive you, Genevois; you have disgraced me forever,” said the miserable man, as he dashed his signature upon the paper.

“You will survive it, mon ami,” replied the other, with something like contempt upon his features. “You are not the man to fret yourself into fever, because of your hurts of honor. And now must you go with us to the ships. We will muffle your jaws once more.”

“You will not carry me with you,” demanded the commander, with something like trepidation in his accents.

“No! You were but an incumbrance. We will only take you to the ships, and keep you safe until we are ready to cast off. To your feet, men, and get your weapons ready. Softly, softly—we need rouse no other sleepers. Onward,—the night goes!—away!”

[XV.]
THE MUTINEERS AT SEA.
HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

For fifteen days was Laudonniere kept a close prisoner by the conspirators on board of one of his own vessels, attended by one of their own number, and denied all intercourse with his friends and people. One of the objects of this rigid duresse, was the coercion of the garrison. With its captain in their power, even were his followers better prepared, with the proper spirit and energy, to give them annoyance, they were thus able to put them at defiance; since any show of hostility on the part of the garrison might be visited upon the head of their prisoner. By this means they got possession of the armory, the magazines, the granaries; and, when ready to put to sea, and not before, did they release the unhappy commandant from his degrading durance.

It was at dawn on the morning of the 8th of December, that the two barks which the conspirators had prepared for sea, might have been seen dropping down the waters of May River, their white sails gleaming through the distant foliage. At the same moment, with head bowed upon his bosom, the unhappy Laudonniere, for the first time fully conscious of his weakness and his misfortune,—deeply sensible now to all his shame as he reflected upon the roving commission which had been extorted from him by the mutineers,—turned his footsteps from the banks of the river, and made his way slowly towards the fortress;—confident no longer in his strength—suspicious of the faith of all around him—and half tempted to sink his shame forever, with his dishonored person, in the waters of the river which had witnessed his disgrace. But he gathered courage to live when he thought of the revenge which fortune might yet proffer to his embrace.

We must now follow the progress of our maritime adventurers. They had, as we have seen, succeeded in fitting out two barks; one on which was confided to Bertrand Conferrant, one of Laudonniere’s sergeants; the other to a soldier named D’Orange. La Croix was named the ensign to the former; Trenchant, the pilot of Laudonniere, was compelled, against his will, to assume this station on board the vessel of D’Orange. The original plan of the rovers was to pursue a common route, and mutually to support each other: but the plans of those who have given themselves up to excess, are always marked by caprices, and the two parties quarrelled before they had left the mouth of the river. They had arranged to descend together upon one of the Spanish islands of the Antilles, and on Christmas night, while the inhabitants were assembled at the midnight mass, at their church, to set upon and murder the inmates and sack the building and the town. Their dissentions affected this purpose; and when they emerged from the river May, they parted company;—one of the vessels keeping along the coast, in order the more easily to double the cape and make for Cuba;—the other boldly standing out to sea and making for the Lucayos. Both vessels proceeded with criminal celerity to the performance of those acts of piracy which had seduced them from their duties. The bark which took her way along the coast, was that of D’Orange. Near a place called Archaha, he took a brigantine laden with cassavi, the Indian breadstuff, and a small quantity of wine. Two men were slain, two taken in a sharp encounter with the people of Archaha. Transferring themselves and stores to the brigantine which they had captured, on account of its superiority, the pirates made sail for the cape of Santa Maria; and from thence, after repairing a leak in their vessel, to Baracou, a village of the island of Jamaica. Here they found an empty caravel which they preferred to their brigantine; and after a frolic among the people of Baracou, which lasted five days, they made a second transfer of their persons and material to the caravel. Dividing their force between their own and this vessel, which was of fifty or sixty tons burthen, they made for the Cape of Tiburon, where they met with a patach, to which chase was immediately given. A sharp encounter followed. The patach was well manned and provided, for her size. She had particular reasons for giving battle and for fighting bravely. Her cargo was very precious. It consisted of a large supply of gold and silver plate and bullion, merchandise, wines, provisions, and much besides to tempt the rovers, and quite as much to move the crew to a vigorous defence. But, over all, it had a-board the Governor of Jamaica himself, with two of his sons. This nobleman was equally fearless and skilful. He directed the resistance of his people, and gave them efficient example. But the force of our rovers was quite too great to be successfully resisted by one so small as that of the Governor, and he directed his people to yield the combat, as soon as he saw its hopelessness.

Greatly, indeed, were our free companions delighted with their successes. The treasure they had acquired was large, but they were not the persons to be content with it. They were apprised of another caravel laden with greater wealth and a more valuable merchandise, and they followed eagerly after this prey. But she escaped them, getting in safety into the port of Jamaica. The governor was a subtle politician. He soon discovered the character of the men with whom he had to deal, and he wrought successfully

upon their cupidity. He proposed to ransom himself at an enormous price; and, with this object, they stood towards the mouth of the harbor in which the caravel had taken shelter. Blinded by their avarice, our rovers were persuaded to suffer the governor to despatch his two boys to their mother, his wife, in a boat which his captors were to furnish. The boys were to procure his ransom, and supplies were to be sent to the vessel also. But the secret counsel of the Governor to his sons, contemplated no such ransom as the free companions desired. They knew not that, in one of the contiguous havens, there lay two or more vessels, superior in burthen to their own, and manned and equipped for war. The Governor, with but a look and a word, beheld his sons depart. The lads knew the meaning of that look, and that single word; they felt all the ignominy of their father’s position, and they knew their duty. A noble and courageous dame was the mother of those boys. With tears and tremors did she clasp her children to her breast; with horror did she hear of her lord’s captivity; but she yielded to no feminine weaknesses which could retard her in the performance of her duty. Her movements were prompt and resolute. The Governor concealed his anxieties, and spoke fairly to his captors. Quite secure in their strength and position, eager with expectations of further gain, rioting in the rich wines they had already won, they entertained no apprehensions of defeat or disappointment. They lay at the mouth of the haven, which stretched away for two leagues into the mainland. Here, suddenly, about the break of day, they saw emerging through a heavy fog, a couple of vessels of greater size than their own. Apprehending no danger, the pirates were taken by surprise. The enemy was upon them before they could prepare for action, and they had scarcely an opportunity to attempt their flight. A volley of Spanish shot soon rang against their sides, and as the trumpets of D’Orange, from his brigantine, blew to announce their danger to those in charge of the captured vessels, he cut his cables and stood off for sea, closely pressed by his swift-footed enemies. Then it was that, watching his moment, the Governor of Jamaica seized upon the enemy nearest him and plunged him into the sea. His example was followed by his people, and the Spaniards coming up with the captured patach at the fortunate moment, the Frenchmen, with whom it was left in charge, threw down their arms, and yielded themselves at discretion to their enemies. Both vessels were recovered, while the brigantine of D’Orange, well navigated by Trenchant, succeeded in showing a clean pair of heels to her pursuers. The chase continued for several leagues without success; and the brigantine, passing Cape des Aigrettes, and the Cape of St. Anthony, swept on to the Havanna. This was the desired destination of D’Orange; but his people were not wholly with him. Several of them, like Trenchant, the pilot, had been forced to accompany the expedition. These were anxious to escape from a connection which was not only against their desires, but was likely, by the crimes of their superiors, to result in the destruction of the innocent. Accordingly, under the guidance of Trenchant, a conspiracy was conceived against the conspirators. The wind serving, while D’Orange slept, Trenchant passed the channel of the Bahamas, and made over for the settlement on May River. The route taken was unsuspected, until the morning of the 25th of March, when they found themselves upon the coast of Florida. By this time, it was too late to prevent the determination of those who had resolved upon their return to La Caroline. The latter had grown strong by consultation together, and the true men urged the less guilty of the conspirators with promises of pardon at the hands of Laudonniere. This hope gradually extended to some of the most guilty; but the discussion which led to this conclusion, was productive of a scene which strikingly illustrates the profligacy of the human heart, particularly when it once throws off the restraints of social authority. The unhappy criminals, in nominal command of the roving brigantine were prepared to dance upon the brink of the precipice,—to sport with the dangers immediately before them, and convert into a farce the very tragedy whose denouêment they had every reason to dread. Well charged with wine, and quaffing full beakers to fortune, they suddenly conceived the idea of a mock court of justice, for the trial of their own offences. The idea was scarcely suggested than it was fastened upon by the wanton imaginations of this besotted crew. The court was convened, on the deck of the vessel, as it would have been at La Caroline. One of the parties personated the character of the judge: another counterfeited the costume and manner of Laudonniere, and appeared as the accuser. Counsel was heard on both sides. There were officers to wait upon and obey the decrees of the court. The cases were elaborately argued. Heavy accusations were made; ingenious pleas put in; and in the very excess of their recklessness, their ingenuity became triumphant. They showed themselves excellent actors, if not excellent men; and caught from their own art, a momentary respite from the oppressive doubts which hung upon their destinies. It was somewhat ominous, however, that their judge—himself one of the most guilty—should say to them, when summing up for judgment—“Make your case as clear as you please—exert your ingenuity as you may, in finding excuses, yet, take my word for it, that, when you reach La Caroline, if Laudonniere causes you not to swing for it, then I will never take him for an honest man again.”

This may have been intended as a mere jocularity. But fate frequently shapes our own words, as she does those of the oracle, in that double sense, which confounds the judgment while it ensures the doom. The counterfeit judge spoke prophetically. It was only when the offenders were fairly in the hands of Laudonniere, beyond escape or remedy, that they were taught to apprehend that they had too greatly exaggerated their sense of his mercy. He detached immediately from the rest four of the leading criminals, who were put in fetters. That was the judgment that prefigured their doom. They were sentenced to be hanged. They strove to question this judgment. The pleasant jest which they had enjoyed on ship-board was quite too recent, to suffer them to forego the hope that this summary decision upon their fate would turn out a jest also. But when they could doubt no longer, three of them took to their prayers with an appearance of much real contrition. The fourth,—a sturdy villain,—still had his faith in human agency. He appealed for protection to his friends and comrades.

“What,” said he, “brethren and companions, will you suffer us to die so shamefully?”

“These are none of your companions,” said Laudonniere;—“they are no authors of seditions—no rebels unto the king’s service. Ye appeal to them in vain.”

A corps of thirty soldiers with their matchlocks ready, and under the command of Alphonse D’Erlach, who had returned from his Indian expedition, and who now stood ready and prompt to execute the orders of the chief, were, perhaps, more potent in silencing the appeal of the mutineer, and quieting the active sympathies of those to whom he prayed, than all the words of Laudonniere. But, at the entreaty of his people, the form of punishment was changed, and the criminals, instead of perishing by the rope, met their death from the matchlock. Among the victims of this necessary justice, were three of the original conspirators, and the ringleader, Stephen le Genevois. Thus ends the history of one of our roving vessels. The other, commanded by Bertrand Conferrent, which we parted with, on her progress towards the Lucayos, was never heard of after, and probably perished in the deeps, with all her besotted crew. Let us now leave the ocean, and follow, for a season, the progress of Alphonse D’Erlach upon the land, and into the territories of Paracoussi Hostaqua.

[XVI.]
THE ADVENTURE OF D’ERLACH.

It was in sullen and half resentful mood that Alphonse D’Erlach

parted from his superior at the gates of La Caroline. Not that he felt any chagrin because of an outraged self-esteem, on account of his rejected counsels. His mortification and annoyance arose from his vexation at leaving a man in the hands of his enemies, whom he could not persuade of his danger, and who was, by this very proceeding, depriving himself of the only means with which he may have safely combated their hostility. It was probably with a justifiable sense of his own efficiency, that D’Erlach felt how necessary was his presence in the garrison at this juncture. He was quite familiar with the vanity of Laudonniere, his several weaknesses of character, and the facility with which he might be deluded by the selfish and the artful. But he had counselled him in vain; and it was with a feeling somewhat allied to scorn, that he was taught to see that his superior, having hitherto regarded him with something more than friendship—as a favorite indeed—had now, in consequence of the most important services, begun to look upon him somewhat in the light of a rival. We have witnessed the last interview between them. We are already in possession of the events which followed the absence of the lieutenant; events which positively would not have taken place, had not the scheme proved successful for procuring his absence from the fortress. Laudonniere’s conscience smote him with a sense of his ingratitude, as the flowing plumes of D’Erlach disappeared amidst the distant umbrage; but he had no misgivings of that danger which the prescient thought of his lieutenant had described as already threatening. He had sufficient time allowed him to meditate equally upon his own blindness and the foresight of the youth, while his mutineers, for fifteen days kept him a close prisoner on board his own brigantine!

During this period, his young lieutenant, with his twenty Frenchmen, was making his way from forest to forest, under the somewhat capricious guidance of the subtle savage, Oolenoe. D’Erlach was more than once dissatisfied with this progress. He found himself frequently doubling, as it were, upon his own ground; not steadily ascending the country in the supposed direction of the Apatahhian Mountains, but rather inclining to the southwest, and scarcely seeming to leave those lower steppes which belonged wholly to the province of the sea. Without absolutely suspecting

his dusky guide, D’Erlach was eminently watchful of him, and frequently pressed his inquiries in regard to the route they were pursuing,—when—noting the course of the sun, he found himself still turning away from those distant mountain summits which were said to await them in the north, with all their world of treasure. The plea of Oolenoe, while acknowledging a temporary departure from the proper path, alleged the difficulties of the country, the spread of extensive morasses, or the presence of nations of hostile Indians, which cut off all direct communication with the province which they sought.

To all this D’Erlach had nothing to oppose. The pretences seemed sufficiently specious, and he continued to advance deep and deeper into the internal intricacies of the unbroken wild, making a progress, day by day, into regions which the European had never penetrated before. On this progress, each soldier had been provided with a certain allowance of food of a portable nature, which was calculated to last many days. The adoption of the Indian customs, in several respects, had made it easy to provide. The maize and beans of the country constituted the chief supply. The former, and sometimes both, crushed or ground, separately or together, and browned slightly before the fire, furnished a wholesome and literally palatable provision for such a journey. They were also to receive supplies from the contributions of Indian tribes through whose settlements they were to pass, and to traffic with other nations whom as yet they did not know. With this latter object the party was provided with a small stock of European trifles—knives, reaphooks, small mirrors, and things of this description.

Thus provided, they pressed forward for several days, on a journey which brought them no nearer to the province which they sought. Still the country through which they travelled was unbroken by a mountain. Gentle eminences saluted their eyes, and they sometimes toiled over hills which, even their exhaustion, which rendered irksome the ascent, did not venture to compare with those mighty ranges, scaling the clouds, of which the swelling narratives of the savage chiefs, and their own adventurers, had given such extravagant ideas. In this march they probably reached the Savannah, and crossed its waters to the rivers of Carolina. The scenery improved in loveliness, and to those who are accessible to the influences of mere external beauty, the progress at every step was productive of its own charm. Gentle valleys spread away before them in the embrace of guardian ranges of hill, and clear streams gushed out through banks that seemed to gladden in perpetual green. Enormous trees spread over them a grateful cover from the sun, and luscious berries of the wood, and unknown fruits, green and purple, were to be found lying in their path, which was everywhere traversed by the trailing vines which produced them. Birds of unknown plumage, and of wild and startling song, darted out from the brake to cheer them as they passed; and as they reached the steeps of sudden hills, they could catch glimpses of herds of sleek deer, that sped away with arrowy fleetness from the green valleys where they browsed, to the cover of umbrageous thickets where they lodged in safety.

The mind of the soldier, however, particularly the adventurer whom one passionate thirst alone impels, is scarcely ever sensible to the charms and attractions of the visible nature. Where they appeal simply to his sense of the beautiful, they are but wasted treasures, like gems that pave the great bed of ocean, and have no value to the finny tribes that glide below—each seeking the selfish object which marks his nature. The passion for the beautiful, with but few exceptions, is a passion that belongs to training and education; and even these seldom suffice, in the presence of more morbid desires, to wean the attention to the things of taste, unless these are recognized as accessories of the object of a more intense appetite. Even Alphonse D’Erlach, the éleve of a superior class—one who had been benefitted by society and the schools, appreciated but imperfectly the loveliness of the landscape, and the fresh luxuriance of a vegetable life in a region that seemed so immediately from the hands of its Creator. His thoughts were of another nature. His anxieties were elsewhere. His eye was fixed upon his Indian guide, of whom his doubts had now become suspicions. Nightly had Oolenoe disappeared from the encampment. It was in vain that our lieutenant set spies upon his movements. He would disappear without giving the alarm, and re-appear, when least expected, before the dawning. D’Erlach’s vigilance was increased. He did not suffer his men to straggle; marching with care by day, his watches were equally divided by night, and his own eyes were kept open by intense anxiety, through hours when most were sleeping. Occasionally, glimpses of Indians were caught on distant hills, or on the edge of suddenly glancing waters. But any attempt to approach sent them into their canoes, or over the hill side—increasing the suspicions of D’Erlach, and awakening the apprehensions of his men. A something of insolence in the tone and manner of Oolenoe led our young lieutenant to suppose that the moment of trial was at hand; and he already began to meditate the seizure of his guide, as a security for the conduct of the Indians, when an incident occurred which the foresight of our lieutenant, great as it was, had never led him to anticipate.

It was at the close of a lovely evening in September, when the little detachment of Frenchmen were rounding a ravine. Oolenoe was advanced with D’Erlach some few paces before the rest. Both of them were silent; but they pressed forward stoutly, through a simple forest trail, over which the Frenchmen followed in Indian file. Suddenly, their march was arrested by a cry from the foot of the ravine, in the rear of the party, and along the path which they had recently traversed. The cry was human. It was that of a voice very familiar to the ears of the party. It was evidently meant to compel attention and arrest their progress. At the instant, D’Erlach wheeled about and made for the rear. A similar movement changed in like manner the faces of his followers; and, in a moment after, a strange, but human form darted out of the forest and made towards them.

The appearance of the stranger was wild beyond description. He had evidently once been white; but his face, hands, breast, and legs, for these were all uncovered, had been blackened by smoke, bronzed by the sun, and so affected by the weather, that it was with the greatest difficulty that his true complexion was discernible. But sure instincts and certain features soon enabled our Huguenots to see that he was a brother Frenchman. Of his original garments, nothing but tatters remained; but these tatters sufficed to declare his nation. His beard and hair, both black, long, and massive, were matted together, and hung upon neck and shoulders in flakes and bunches, rather than in shreds or tresses. His head was without covering, and the only weapon which he carried was a couteau de chasse, which, as it was of peculiar dimensions, silver-hilted, and altogether of curious shape, was probably the only means by which the Frenchmen identified the stranger.

The keen, quick eye of Alphonse D’Erlach seemed first, of the whites, to have discovered him. It is probable, from what took place at the moment, that Oolenoe had made him out in the same moment. The stranger was no other than Le Genré—the banished man who had headed the first conspiracy against Laudonniere. As he approached, rushing wildly forward, with his couteau de chasse grasped firmly in uplifted hand, D’Erlach raised his sword, prepared to cut him down as he drew nigh; when the words of his voice, shouted at the utmost of his strength, caused them to cast their eyes in another direction.

“Seize upon Oolenoe. Suffer him not to escape you.”

At that moment, the keen, quick glance of the lieutenant beheld the rapid bounds of the savage, as he made for the cover of the neighboring thicket. His orders were instantly given. A dozen bodies instantly sprang forward in pursuit—a dozen matchlocks were lifted in deadly aim, but the lithe savage doubling like a hare, bounding forward, now squat, and seeming to fly along the surface of the ground like a lapwing, stealthy in every movement as a cat, as swift and agile,—succeeded in gaining the woods, though the carbines rang with their volley, and, throwing down their weapons, a score of the light-limbed Frenchmen started in the chase. A wild warwhoop followed the discharge of the pieces, declaring equally the defiance and disdain of the savage. The pursuit was idle, as a few seconds enabled him to find shelter in a morass, which the inexperienced Europeans knew not how to penetrate. Alphonse D’Erlach recalled his men from pursuit, fearing lest they might fall into an ambush, in which, wasting their ammunition against invisible enemies, they would only incur the risk of total destruction. He prepared to confront the stranger, whose first appearance had been productive of such a startling occurrence. Le Genré, meanwhile, had paused in his progress. He no longer rushed forward like a maniac; but satisfied with having given the impulse to the pursuit of Oolenoe, and apparently conscious of how much was startling in his appearance, he now stood beside a pine which overhung the path, one hand resting against the mighty shaft, as if from fatigue, while from the other his couteau de chasse now drooped, its sharp extremity pointing to the ground.

His appearance thus indicated a pacific disposition; but remembering his ancient treacheries only, and suspicious of his relations with Oolenoe, D’Erlach approached him with caution, as if to the encounter with an enemy. As he drew nigh, followed by his band, Le Genré addressed them with mournful accents.

“Is there no faith for me hereafter, mes amis? Am I forever cut off from the communion with my comrades? Shall there be no fellowship between us, D’Erlach? Shall we not forget the past—shall I not be forgiven for my crime, even when I repent it in bitterness and bloody tears. Behold, my brother—I proffer you the last assurance.”

These words were accompanied by a sign, that of the mystic brotherhood—the ancient masons—which none but a few of the party beheld or comprehended. The weapon of Alphonse D’Erlach was dropped instantly, and his hand extended. He, too, belonged to the ancient order, and the security which was guaranteed by the exhibition of its token, on the part of the offender, served, when all other pleas would have failed, to secure him sympathy and protection.

“I have sinned, Alphonse—I know it—beyond forgiveness—sinned like a madman; but I have borne the penalty. Seldom has human sinner suffered from mental penalty, as I from mine. Behold me! look I longer human? I have taken up my covert with the wild beasts of the desert, and they fly from my presence as from a savage more fearful than any they know. In my own desperation I have had no fears. I have herded with beast and reptile, and longed for their hostility. I have lived through all, though I craved not to live, and the food which would have choked or poisoned the man not an outcast from communion with his fellows, has kept me strong, with a cruel vitality that has increased by suffering. The crude berries of the wood, the indigestible roots of the earth, I have devoured with a hideous craving; and, in the griefs and privations of my body, my mind has been purged of its impurities. I have seen my sin in its true colors—my folly, my vicious passions, the wretch that I was—the miserable outlaw and destitute that I am! That I repent of the crimes that I have done and sought to do, is the good fruit of this bitter on which I have rather preyed than fed. I wrote to Laudonniere of my sorrow and repentance, but he refused to hear me. Bourdet I sought, that he might take me once more to France; but he too dreaded communion with me; and when I rushed into his boat, he only bore me to the opposite shore of the river, and set me down to the exploration of new forests, and the endurance of new tortures. I blame them not, that they would not believe me—that they refused faith in one who had violated all faith before—that, equally due to his God and to his sovereign. Oh! brother, do not you drive me from you also!”

And the miserable outlaw clasped his hands passionately together in entreaty, with a face wild with woe and despair, and would have fallen prostrate in humiliation before his comrades, if the arm of Alphonse D’Erlach had not sustained him.

“But what of this savage, Oolenoe!” demanded the lieutenant, when the first burst of grief had subsided from the lips of Le Genré.

“Ah! you know that I have been the prisoner to this savage, and to the very comrades of my sin. For this I have pursued you hither. While you march onward to snares such as the savages of Potanou have provided for you by means of this Oolenoe, treachery is busy and successful at La Caroline.”

“Successful?”

“Ay! successful! But hear me. When I fled to the forest, I took shelter first with the people of Satouriova. I was found out and followed by Fourneaux, Stephen Le Genevois, and La Roquette. To them, at times, came La Croix, whom Laudonniere still trusted, and whom even you did not suspect. They came to me with new plans. They were to contrive pretexts for sending you off to a distance, with the best men of the garrison. Oolenoe was a ready agent at once of Potanou, Satouriova, and the conspirators. In your absence, they were to get possession of the garrison and secure the person of Laudonniere.”

“You mean not to say, Le Genré, that they have succeeded in this?”

“Ay, do I—the garrison is in their hands—the shipping; and Laudonniere is himself a close prisoner on board the unfinished brigantine.”

“God of heaven! and I am here!”

“When the conspirators found that I no longer agreed to second them in their machinations, and when I threatened to expose them to Laudonniere, they employed Oolenoe to secure my person. Five of his people beset me at the same moment, and held me fast in one of their wigwams until their scheme had been carried into execution. With Laudonniere in their hands, I was abandoned by my keepers, and suffered to go forth. From them I learned the history of all that had taken place in the colony. I saw the danger, and felt that the only hope for Laudonniere lay in you. Fortunately, I had only to follow those who had held me captive, in order to find the route that you had taken. The people of Oolenoe were soon upon his tracks. I compassed theirs. It is one profit in the outlawed life which I have been doomed to endure, that it has taught me the arts of the savage—taught me the instincts of the beast,—his stealth, his endurance, his far-sight, and his eager and appreciating scent. Hark! dost hear! Put thy men in order. The subtle savage is about to gird thee in.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when the forest was alive with cries of warfare. Wild whoops rang through the great avenues of wood, and sudden glimpses of the red-men, followed by flights of arrows, warned the Frenchmen still more emphatically to prepare against the danger. But the arrows, though discharged with skill and muscle, were sent from far;—the dread of the European fire-arms prompting a decent caution, which, in a great degree, lessened the superiority which the savages possessed in numbers. The woods were now filled with enemies. Tribe after tribe had collected, along their route, as the Frenchmen had advanced, and every forward step had served only to increase the great impediments in the way of their return. It was due wholly to the excellence of the watch nightly kept by D’Erlach, that they had not been butchered while they slept. It was in consequence of his admirable caution, and provision against attack while they marched, that they had not fallen into frequent ambush, as they moved by noonday. Nightly had the subtle chief, Oolenoe, stolen away to his comrades, arraying his numbers, and counselling their pursuit and progress. His schemes detected, the mask was thrown aside as no longer of use, and open warfare was the cry through the forests. The necessity was before our Frenchmen of fighting their way back. The effort of the red-men was to cut them off in detail, by frequent surprises, by incessant assaults and annoyances, and by straitening them in the search after water and provisions.

It would be a weary task to pursue, day by day, and hour by hour, the thousand details, by which each party endeavored to attain its object. The events of such a conflict must necessarily be monotonous. Enough to say, that the whole genius of Alphonse D’Erlach was brought forth during the constant emergencies of his march and proved equal to them all. His first object was to pursue a new route on his return. This greatly shortened the distance, and increased the chances of food, since it was only from the route along which he came that Oolenoe had contrived the removal of all the provisions. The progress was thus varied on their return. It was enlivened by incessant attacks of the savages. Their arrows were continually showered upon our Frenchmen from every thicket that could afford an ambush; but, habited as they were with the escaupil, or stuffed cotton doublets, which the Spaniards had invented for protection in their warfare with the Indians, the damage from this source was comparatively small. Some few of the Frenchmen were galled by slight wounds, one or two were seriously hurt, and one of them suffered the loss of an eye. In all these conflicts, Le Genré fought with the greatest bravery—with a valor, indeed, that seemed to set at scorn every thought of danger or disaster. He was always the first to rush forward to the assault, and always the last to leave the pursuit, when the trumpets sounded the recal. He proved an admirable second to Alphonse D’Erlach, and materially contributed to the success of the various plans adopted by the latter for the safety of his people.

It was the ninth day from that on which they left La Caroline, when Le Genré

made his appearance, and Oolenoe fled to the forests. Six days had they been engaged in their backward journey. In this route, diverging greatly from that which they had pursued before, and following the course indicated by the sun with a remarkable judgment, which tended still more to raise the reputation of Alphonse D’Erlach in the eyes of his followers, they suddenly struck into a path with which Le Genré himself was familiar. It proved to be one of those which he had pursued on a previous occasion, when, in the possession of the confidence of his chief, he had been permitted to lead forth a party for exploration. Our Frenchmen now knew where they were, and thirty-six hours of steady travelling would, they felt assured, bring them within sight of the fortress of La Caroline. But, as if the inveterate chieftain, Oolenoe, had made a like discovery at the same moment, his assaults became more desperate, and were urged with a singular increase of skill and fury. Now it was that the barbarian tribes of Florida seemed to gather into a host—such a host as encountered the famous Ponce de Leon and other Spanish chieftains when they sought to overrun the land. They no longer sped their arrows from a distance, which, in giving themselves security from the fire-arms of the Frenchmen, rendered their own shafts in great degree innocuous. But it was observed that, when they had succeeded in drawing the fire of the Frenchmen by two successive assaults, they usually grew bolder at a third, and came forward with an audacity which seemed to put at defiance equally the weapons and the spirit of their enemies. The inequality of numbers between the respective parties, made this subtle policy of Oolenoe particularly dangerous to the weaker. Alphonse D’Erlach felt his danger, and the openly-expressed apprehensions of Le Genré declared it. The subject was one of great anxiety. The whole day had been spent in conflicts,—conflicts which were interrupted, it is true, by frequent intervals of rest, but which continued to increase in their violence as evening approached. Several of the Frenchmen were now wounded, two of them dangerously, and all of them were greatly wearied. Le Genré urged D’Erlach to a night movement, in which they might leave their enemies behind them, and perhaps cause them to give up the pursuit, particularly as they would then be almost within striking distance of La Caroline; but the coolness and judgment of D’Erlach had not deserted him, or been impaired by his increase of difficulties.

“And how,” said he, “am I to know whether we shall find friends or foes in possession of La Caroline? This is not the least of my dangers. I must preserve my force against that doubt; but keep them fresh, certainly, and if possible without diminution, so that I may rescue Laudonniere or sustain myself. Besides, to attempt the night march I must leave these poor fellows, Mercœur and Dumain, to be scalped by the savages, or force them forward only that they may drop by the way. No! we must take rest ourselves, and give them all the rest we can. We must encamp as soon as possible, and the shelter of yon little bay, to which we are approaching, seems to offer an excellent cover. We will make for that.”

He did as he said. His camp was formed on the edge of one of those basins which, in the southern country is usually termed a bay—so called in consequence of the dense forests of the shrub laurel that covers the region with the most glistening green, and fills the languid atmosphere with a most rich but oppressive perfume. Here he disposed his little command, so that the approaches were few and such as could be easily guarded. Here he was secure from those wild flights of arrows which, in a spot less thickly wooded, might have been made to annoy a company, discharged even in the darkness of the night. But Alphonse D’Erlach had another reason for selecting this as his present place of shelter. As soon as he had taken care of his wounded men, he examined the munitions of all. He had been sparing his powder, and he was now rejoiced to find that the quantity was quite sufficient, according to the exigencies of the warfare of that day, to suffice for two or more days longer. This enabled him to devise a project by which to ensnare the savages to their ruin. Hitherto he had classed his men in three divisions. The first of these encountered the first onslaught of the enemy, and the second were prepared for its renewal, while the third was a reserve for a continuance of the struggle, giving time to the two first divisions to reload. But it had been seen, during the day, that the savages had made a corresponding division of their force;—that successive attacks, followed up with great rapidity, drew the fires of his several squads, and so well aware did the assailants now appear to be of this practice, that, after the third fire, they boldly rushed almost within striking distance of the Frenchmen, hurling their stone hatchets with wonderful dexterity and precision. To provide for this contingency—to convert it to profitable results—was the study of D’Erlach. He felt that, but for some stratagem, it was not improbable that the whole party would lose their scalps before the closing of another day. He had observed that the bay in which he harbored his men contained, interspersed with its laurels, a perfect wilderness of canes, the fluted reeds of the swamp and morass, common to the country, some of which grew to be nearly twenty feet in height. These were still green in September, their feathery tops waving to and fro in every breeze, while, under the pressure of the sudden gust, their shafts, in seeming solid phalanx, laid themselves almost to the earth, to recover, like an artful and plumed warrior, when the danger had overblown. Without declaring his plans, D’Erlach had a number of these canes cut down in secresy, and divided into sections of four or five feet. The extreme barrel of each of these sections was filled tightly with gunpowder, and a fuse introduced at the orifice which received the powder. Strips from the shirts of his people were employed to bind the portion of the reed thus filled, and two of these shafts were lashed tightly to each matchlock, the charged portion protruding near the muzzle. He needed no words to explain his policy to his people. They understood the object in beholding the process, and admired the ingenuity which promised them hereafter the most signal advantages.

Rigid was the watch maintained that night in the camp of our Frenchmen. Fortunately, they had obtained that day a fresh supply of food while passing through a miserable hamlet, from which the occupants had fled at their approach. Their supper was eaten in silence and anxiety. The watches throughout the night were two, Le Genré taking the first, while D’Erlach, from twelve till daylight, maintained the last. There were no alarms. The Indians had retired, as was conjectured, to place themselves in some favorite place of ambush against the coming of the Frenchmen the next day. One of the two men who had been most severely wounded among the Frenchmen, died that night in great agony. The arrow of the savage had penetrated to his lungs. He had imprudently thrown off his coat of escaupil, in consequence of the great heat of the noonday, and a skirmish took place before he could reclothe himself, in which he received his hurt. D’Erlach had the body laid in the deepest portion of the bay, its only covering being a forest of canes, which were cut down and thrown over the corpse.

With the first rosy blush of the dawn, the little troop was in motion. At setting off D’Erlach gave ample directions for the anticipated conflict. His command was divided into three companies. From the first of these, three men were commissioned to deliver the fire of their pieces on the appearance of the Indians. The rest were to discharge one of the two loaded sections of cane attached to the matchlocks. The second and third were to do likewise. The effect of this arrangement would be to leave ten out of nineteen pieces undischarged, and ready for fatal use on the more daring approach of the savages. Their preparations, and the proposed ruse were soon put to proof. It was about nine o’clock in the morning, when the company was about to enter a defile which led to an extensive tract of pines. At the entrance, on each hand, stretched a morass that seemed interminable. The opening to the pine forest seemed a narrow gorge, the jaws of which were densely occupied with a tangled thicket that seemed to baffle approach. D’Erlach saw the dangers which awaited him in such a defile. His three bands were made to march separately as they approached it, and very slowly. A moderate interval lay between them, which would enable them, while an enemy could only attack them singly, in turn to support each other. The judgment of our young lieutenant did not deceive him. On each side of this gorge, Oolenoe had posted his warriors. They occupied the shelter of the thicket on both hands. Their eagerness and impatience, increased by the slow progress of the Frenchmen, whom they regarded as only marching to the slaughter, lost them some of the advantages of this position. They showed themselves too soon. With a horrid howl the young warriors discharged their arrows from the covert, and then boldly dashed out among the pines. The Frenchmen were nerved for the struggle. Forewarned, they had been forearmed. There was no surprise. Coolly, the three select men delivered the fire of their pieces, and each with fatal effect. In the same moment the charged barrels of the cane were ignited and torn asunder by an explosion which was sufficiently gun-like to deceive the unpractised ear of the Indian. The savages answered this fire by a cloud of arrows, and began to advance. It was now that the remaining section of the division, which had retained their fire, delivered it with great precision and an effect similar to the former; those who had emptied their pieces on the previous occasion, contenting themselves with discharging a cane. By this time, the two other divisions, under D’Erlach, had pushed through the gorge, and were spreading themselves right and left, among the pines, in a situation to practice the same game with their assailants, which had been played so well by the foremost party. We must not follow the caprices of the battle. It is enough to say that, deceived by the apparent discharge of all the pieces of the Frenchmen, the Indians, headed by Oolenoe himself, dashed desperately upon their enemies, and were received by the fatal fire from more than a dozen guns, which sent their foremost men headlong to the ground, the subtle chief, Oolenoe himself, among them. At this sight, the savages set up a howl of dismay, and fled in all directions; while Oolenoe, thrice staggering to his feet, at length sunk back upon the ground, writhing in an agony which did not, however, prevent him, on the approach of D’Erlach, from making a desperate effort to smite him with his stone hatchet. His whole form collapsed with the effort, and wrenching the rude but heavy implement from the dying savage, the lieutenant drove it into his brain and ended his agonies with a single stroke.

With this adventure, the difficulties of the party ceased. That night they reached the fortress, in season to confirm the authority of Laudonniere; and, as we have seen, to assist in the execution of the mutineers by whom he had been temporarily overthrown.

[XVI.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

Sustained and reassured by the return of his lieutenant, Laudonniere, released from his bonds, proceeded to re-organize his garrison. He promoted those who had proved faithful when all threatened to be false, and deprived the doubtful, or the dangerous, of all their previous trusts. To improve and strengthen his forts, to build vessels, which were to supply the places of those which the mutineers had taken, and others of smaller burthen for the express navigation of the river, were his immediate cares, in all of which his progress was considerable. During this period he lived on relations of tolerable amity with his Indian neighbors. Their little crops had, by this time, been harvested, and they were not unwilling to exchange their surplus productions for the objects of European manufacture which they coveted. The supplies brought by the red-men were “fish, deere, turki-cocks, leopards, little beares, and other things, according to the place of their habitation,” for which they were recompensed with “certaine hatchets, knives, beades of glasse, combs, and looking-glasses.” The “leopards and little beares” were probably wild cats and raccoons, or opossums, all of which furnished excellent feeding to our hungry Frenchmen in September. The wild-cat is usually a fat beast, differing very considerably from the more savage tribes to whom we liken him, the wolf and the panther; while the opossum is probably the fattest of all animals at seasons when the forest mast is abundant. Of the quality of the meat we will say nothing. To those with whom the appetite has been made properly subservient to the taste, and who suffer from no necessities, his flavor is scarcely such as legitimates his admission into the kitchen. But the case is far otherwise with those inferior tribes with whom the appetites are coarse and eager. The negro is seldom so well satisfied as when he feeds on ’possum. “’Possum,” is the common remark among this people, “’possum heap better than pig!” To those who know how high is the estimate which the negro sets upon the pig family—an estimate which is the occasion of an epidemic under which a fat pig, straying into the woods in June and July, is sure to perish—the compliment is inappreciable.

Thus, feeding well, with his health and self-esteem gradually recovering, Laudonniere began to resume his explorations, and to cast his eyes about him with his old desire for precious discoveries. It was about this time that he was visited by a couple of savages from the dominions of King Maracou. This potentate dwelt some forty leagues to the south of La Caroline. The Indians, among other matters, related to Laudonniere that, in the service of another native monarch named Onathaqua, there was a man whom they called “Barbu, or the bearded man,” who was not of the people of the country. Another foreigner, whose name they knew not, was said to inhabit the house of King Mathiaca, a forest chieftain, whose tribes occupied a contiguous region. From the descriptions thus given him, Laudonniere readily conceived that these strange men were Christians. He accordingly opened a communication with the tribes by which the intermediate country was occupied, and under the stimulus of a liberal recompense, promised them in European goods, the two strangers were brought in safety to La Caroline. The conjecture of Laudonniere proved rightly founded. They were white men and Christians—Spaniards who had suffered shipwreck some fifteen years before, upon the flats called “The Martyrs,” and over and against that region of the country, which at this period was called Calos—from a great native prince of that name.[22] This savage repaired to the wreck, and carried off into captivity its crew and passengers. Many of these were women, who became the wives of their conquerors. The king of Calos, whom a Spaniard described as the “goodliest and the tallest Indian of the country, a mighty man, a warrior, and having many subjects under his obedience,” not only saved the Europeans from their wreck, but, by diligent and indefatigable perseverance, rescued most of the treasure that was in the vessel; the wealth which had been gleaned with unsparing cruelties from the bowels of the earth in Peru and Mexico. The treasures thus obtained by King Calos, were represented to be of almost limitless value. “He had great store of golde and silver, so farre forth that, in a certaine village, he had a pit full thereof, which was at the least as high as a man, and as large as a tunne.” According to our Spaniards, it might be easy, “with an hundred shot,” to obtain all this spoil; to say nothing of the scattered treasures which might be gleaned from the common people of the country. That the extent of their resources might not be under-valued, the captive Christians farther informed him, that the young women of the country, when engaged in their primitive dances, assembled to their festivities in a glorious costume, such as would be an irresistible charm in any European assembly. They were not only lovely in themselves, with their dark beauties partially unfolded to the gaze, and the tawny hues enlivened by the warm lustre of the sun, shining in crimson flushes through the prevailing hue of the complexion, but they wore, suspended from their girdles, plates of gold, large as a saucer, the number and weight of which would have totally impeded the action as well as agility of any but a people so exquisitely and vigorously proportioned. The men wore similar decorations, though not perhaps in such great profusion. This gold, according to their account, was derived chiefly from vessels cast away—the coasts of the territory of King Calos being particularly treacherous, and their secret, lurking shoals frequently rising up suddenly to rob the king of Spain of his hardly-won ingots. The residue of his wealth in the precious metals, King Calos derived from the kings and chiefs of the interior. Perhaps more of it was obtained in this way than our Spaniards knew. There can be no doubt but that the mines of the great Apalachian ranges were explored, however imperfectly, by the red-men of the country, following, in all probability, some superior races, who first taught them where to look, and of whom we have now but the most imperfect vestiges.

Among the articles of traffic, which the people of Calos sold to the interior tribes, was a domestic root, constituting a favorite bread-stuff which was particularly grateful to the palates of their people. This is described as forming a fine flour, than which it it is impossible to find better, and as supplying the wants of an immense tract of country. It was undoubtedly the breadstuff known as coonti in modern periods. This, and a species of date, taken from a sort of palm tree—the persimmon probably—were commodities in which they dealt to great extent. Of the root from which they made their favorite breadstuff, it is written, that the proprietors were very slow to part with, unless well paid for it. The people of King Calos are probably to be traced through a thousand fluctuations of place, character and fortune, to the Seminoles of recent periods—a like people, living in the same region, and rejoicing in the same fruits and freedom.

Of this King Calos, the narrative of our Spaniards goes farther, passing finally into the province of the miraculous. He is described as a prince held in special reverence by his subjects;—not simply for his valor as a soldier, or his wisdom as a ruler, but his wondrous powers as a magician. He seems to have combined the civil and the religious powers of the nation—to have been priest and prophet as well as Governor. The government of his country, like that of simple nations generally, was theocratic and patriarchal. His people were taught to believe that it was through his spells and incantations, that the earth brought forth her fruits. He resorted to various arts to perpetuate this faith, and various cruelties to subdue and punish that spirit of inquiry which might test too closely the propriety of his spiritual claims. Twice a year he retired from the sight of all his subjects, two or three of his friends alone excepted, and was supposed, at this season, to be busy with his mighty sorceries. Woe to the unlucky wretch who, whether purposely or by accident, intruded upon his mysteries. The dwelling to which he had resort was tabooed on every hand; and death, with the most fearful penalties, stood warningly at all the avenues by which it was approached. Each year a prisoner was sacrificed to the savage god he served; and this prisoner, so long as Barbu had been a captive, had been a Spaniard always—the supply being sufficient, from the frequency of wrecks upon the coast, by which an adequate number of captives was always to be had. The dominions of Calos are described as lying along a river, beyond the cape of Florida, forty or fifty leagues towards the southwest; while those of Onathaqua were nearer to La Caroline, on the northern side of the cape, “in a place which we call in the chart, Cannaverel, which is in 28 degrees

.”

When the two Spaniards were brought before Laudonniere they were entirely naked. Their hair hung below their loins, as did that of the savages; and so completely had they become accustomed to the habits of the red-men, that the resumption of the costume of civilization was not only strange but irksome. But Laudonniere was not disposed to permit their acquired habits to supersede those of their origin. He caused the hair of his newly-found Christians to be shorn, as heedless of the loss of strength which might follow as ever was Dalilah while docking the long locks of her giant lover. It was with great reluctance that the wild men submitted to this shearing. When the hair was finally taken off they insisted upon preserving it, and rolling it in linen put it away carefully, to be shown in Europe as a proof of their wild and cruel experience. In removing the shock from one of them, a little treasure of gold was found hidden in its masses, to the value of five-and-twenty crowns, by which the Spaniard conclusively proved that one portion of his Spanish education had never deserted him. What a commentary upon the wisdom of civilization, that, in such a state, with such bonds, after such losses, of freedom, position, and the society of all the well-beloved and equal, his heart should still yearn for the keeping of a treasure which must, at every moment, have only served to mock the possessor with the dearer treasures of home, country, friends, religion, of which his fortunes had made utter forfeit. But let us pass to the narrative of Barbu, himself—one of the recovered Spaniards—which we owe, in some degree to history, but mostly to tradition.

[XVII.]
THE NARRATIVE OF LE BARBU:
THE BEARDED MAN OF CALOS.

Now when Barbu, the bearded man, who had been dwelling among the people of Calos, had been shorn of the long and matted hair and beard, which had made him much more fearful to the eye than any among the savages themselves,—and when our right worthy captain had commanded that we should bathe and cleanse him, and had given him shirts of fine linen and clothes from his own wardrobe, so that he should once more appear like a Christian man among his kindred,—albeit he seemed to be greatly disquieted, and exceedingly awkward therein,—then did he conduct him into the corps de garde, where our people were all bidden to assemble. There, being seated all, Barbu, the Spaniard, being entreated thereto by our right worthy captain, proceeded to unfold the full relation of the grievous strait and peril by which he had fallen into the power of King Calos, and of what happened to him thereafter. And it was curious to see how that he, a Spaniard born, and not ill-educated in one of the goodly towns of old Spain, in all gentle learning, should, in the space of fifteen years sojourn among the savages, have so greatly suffered the loss of his native tongue. Slow was he of speech, and greatly minded to piece out with the Indian language the many words in which the memory of his own had failed him. Well was it for our understanding of what he delivered, that so many of us had been dwelling among the red-men at other times,—to speak nothing of Monsieur D’Erlach, Monsieur Ottigny, both lieutenants in the garrison, and Monsieur La Roche Ferriere, who, with another, by special commandment of our captain, had dwelt for a matter of several months among the people of King Olata Utina. By means of the help brought by these, we were enabled to find the meaning of those words in which Barbu failed in his Spanish. So it was that we followed the fortunes of the bearded man, according to the narrative as here set down.

---

Then, at the repeated entreaty of Monsieur Laudonniere, Barbu arose and spoke:

“First, Señor Captain, I have to declare how much I thank you for the protection you have given me, the kindness which has clad me once more in Christian garments, and the cost and travail with which you have recovered me from my bonds among the heathen. Albeit, that I feel strangely in these new habits, and that my native tongue comes back to me slowly when I would speak from a full and overflowing heart, yet will I strive to make you sensible of all the facts in my sad history, and of the great gratitude which I feel for those by whose benevolence I may fondly hope that my troubles are about to end. I know not now the day or season when we left the port of Nombre de Dios, in an excellent ship, well filled with treasures of the mine, and a goodly company, on our return to the land of our fathers beyond the sea. My own share in the wealth of this vessel was considerable, and I had other treasures in the person of a dear brother, and a sister who accompanied us. Our sister was married to one who was with us also, and the united wealth of the three, such was our fond expectations, would enable us to retire to our native town of Burgos, and commend us to the favor of our people. But it was written that we should not realize these blessed expectations, and that I alone, of the four, should be again permitted to dwell among a Christian people. Yet I give not up the hope that I shall yet see my brother, who was carried away among the Indians of the far west, when we were scattered among the tribes, in the grand division of our captives. But this part of my story comes properly hereafter.

“We put to sea from the port of Nombre de Dios with very favoring winds; but these lasted us not long, ere they came out from all quarters of the heavens, and we ran before the storm under a rag of sail, without knowing in what course we sped. Thus, for three days, we were driven before the baffling winds; and when the storm lulled, the clouds still hung about us, and our pilot wot nothing of that part of the sea in which we went. Two days more followed, and still we were saddened by the clouds that kept evermore coming down from heaven, and brooding upon the deep like great fogs that gather in the morn among the mountains. Thus we sped, weary and desponding as we were, without any certainty as to the course we kept, or the region of space or country round about us. Meanwhile, the seams of our vessel began to yawn, and great was the labor which followed, to all hands, to keep her clear of water. This we did not wholly; and it was in vain that our carpenter sought for, in order to stop, the leak. Thus, weary and sad, we continued still sweeping forward slowly, looking anxiously, with many prayers, for the sun by day and the moon and stars by night. But the Blessed Virgin was implored in vain. We had offended. There was treasure on board the vessel, but it was stained with blood. You have not heard in your histories of the bloody Juan de Mores y Silva, who tortured the unhappy Mexicans by fire, even in the caverns where they resided, seeking the gold, which they gained not sufficiently soon, or in sufficient quantity, to satisfy his cruel lust for wealth. He was one of our companions on this voyage, bound homewards with an immense subsidy in ingots—huge chests of gold and silver—with which he aimed to swell into grandeur with new titles, when he arrived in Spain. But the just Providence willed it otherwise. He was, doubtless, the Jonah in our vessel, who fought against the prayers for mercy and protection which the true believers addressed to the Holy Virgin in our behalf.”

Here our captain, Laudonniere, interrupted Barbu, and said—

“Verily, Señor Spaniard, had thy prayer been addressed to God himself, the Father, through the intervention and the mediation of the Blessed Saviour, his Son, whose blood was shed for sinners, it might have better profited thy case. Thy prayers to the Virgin were an unseemly elevation of a mortal woman over the divinity of the Godhead. But I will not vex thee with disputation. Thou art a Christian, though it is after a fashion which, to me seems scarcely more becoming than that of these poor savages of Calos, who yield faith, as thou tellest me, to the spells and enchantments of their bloody sovereign. But, proceed with thy story, which I shall be slow to break in upon again until thou art well ended.”

With the permission thus vouchsafed him, Barbu, the bearded man, thus resumed his discourse:

“We plead for the interposition of the Virgin, Monsieur le Capitaine, not as we deem her the source of power and of mercy, but as we hold it irreverent to rush even with our prayers to the feet of the awful Father himself; and rejoice to believe that she who was specially chosen, as one who should bear the burden of the Saviour-child, was of a spirit properly sanctified and pure for such purposes of interposition. But, as thou sayest, we will leave this matter. If we offend in our rites and offices, it is because we err in judgment, and not that our hearts wish to afflict the feelings or the thoughts of those who see with other eyes the truth. Besides, my long and outlandish abode among the red-men, might well excuse me many errors.”

“And so, indeed, it might, Señor Spaniard,” said Laudonniere graciously; then, as the latter remained silent, Barbu continued:

“Doubtless, Señor, as I said before, the bloody Juan de Mores y Silva, was the Jonah of our vessel, on whose account the Blessed Providence turned a deaf ear to our prayers and entreaties. It was not decreed that he should escape to rejoice in his ill-gotten treasure; and his fortunes were so mixed up with ours, that the overthrow of one was necessarily at the grievous loss and peril of us all. How many days we lay tossing on the tumultuous waves, or swept to and fro, beaten and sore distressed by the violent and changeful winds, I do not now remember, but it was in very sickness and hopelessness of heart, that we lay down at night as one lies down and submits to a power with which he feels himself wholly powerless to contend. Thus did we cast ourselves down—as the dreary shades of night came over us, with a deeper and drearier cloud than ever,—not seeking sleep, but seized upon by it, as it were, to save us from the suffering, akin to madness, which must haply follow upon our fearful waking thoughts. While we slept, our vessel struck upon the low flats of the Martyrs—those shoals which have laid bare the ribs of so many goodly and gold-laden ships of my countrymen, sucking down their brave hearts and all their treasures in the deep. We were lifted high by the surges, and rested, beyond recovery, upon the shoals, from which the remorseless seas refused again to lift us off. Our vessel lay upon one side, and the greedy waves rushed into her hold. We were stunned rather than awakened by the shock. We strove not for safety or repair. How many perished in the moment when the ship fell over I know not, but one of these was the husband of my sister. He was drowned in the first rush of the billows into the ship, though, as it was night, we knew it not. My sister had thrown herself beside my brother, and was sleeping upon his arm. She was the first to learn her misfortune, awaking, as she averred, to hear the faint cries of her lord for succor, though she knew not whence the sounds arose. When our eyes opened upon the scene, strange to say, the clouds had disappeared. The dark waves of the tempest had sped away to other regions. A gentle breeze from the land had arisen, full of sweet fragrance and a healing freshness, and, bright over head, in the blessed heavens, blossomed fresh the eternal host of the stars. Oh! the life and soothing in that smile of God. But we were not strong for the blessing, nor sufficiently grateful that life was still vouchsafed us. The day dawned upon us to increase our wretchedness. It left us without hope. Our food was ruined by the waves that filled the vessel, and though the land was spread before us in a lengthened stripe, bearing forests which were surely full of fragrance, we beheld not the means by which we should gain its pleasant shores with safety. Our boats had perished in the surf; one of them stove to pieces, and the other swept away. In our despondency and our sleep we had yielded our courage and our providence, and we lay now in the sight of heaven, amidst the equal realm of sea and sky, with the land spreading lovelily before us, yet could we do nothing for ourselves. We lay without food or drink all day, seeing nothing but the bare skies, the sea, and the shore, which only mocked our eyes. My sister sorrowed and sickened in my arms. She cried for water as one cries in the delirious agonies of fever. She would drink of the water of the deep, but this we denied her; and the day sunk again, and with it her hope and strength. With the increase of the winds that night, she grew delirious; and, when we knew not—and this was strange, for I cannot believe that I closed mine eyes that night—she disappeared. Once, it seemed that I heard her voice, in a wild scream, calling me by name, and I started forward to feel that she was gone. She left my arms while I lay insensible. It was not sleep. It was stupor. My consciousness was drowned in my great grief, and in the exhaustion of all my strength for lack of food.

“My brother and myself alone survived of all our family. With the knowledge that our sister was really gone—swallowed up, doubtless, in the remorseless deep, into which she had darted in her delirium—we came to a full consciousness. Then, when it was only misery to know, we were permitted to know all, and to feel the whole terrible truth pressing upon us, that we were alone in that dreary world of sea. Not alone of our company; only of our people. Many there were who still kept in life, watchful but hopeless. We could see their dusky forms by the faint light of the stars, crouching along the slanting plane of the vessel, upon which, by cord, and sail, and spar, we still contrived to maintain foothold; and, anon, our company would lessen. The solemn silence of all things, except the dash of the waves against us, rolling up with murmurs, and breaking away in wrath, was interrupted only by a sullen plunge, ever and anon, into the engulphing deep, as the hope went out utterly in the heart of the victim, and he yielded to death, rather than prolong the wretched endurance of a life so full of misery.

“Thus the night passed; not without other signs to cheer as well as startle us. Through the darkness we could see lights in the direction of the shore, as if borne by human hands. With the dawn of day, our eyes were turned eagerly in that direction. Nor did we look in vain. The shore swarmed with human forms. A hundred canoes were already darting along the margin of the great deep, and evident were the preparations of the people of this wild region, to visit our stranded vessel. In a little time they came. Their canoes were some of them large enough to carry forty warriors, though made from a single tree. They came to us in order of battle; a hundred boats, holding each from ten to fifty warriors. These carried spear and shield, huge lances, and well-curved bows, drawn with powerful sinews of the deer. Their arrows were long shafts of the feathery reed, such as flourish in all these forests. The feather from the eagle’s wing gave it buoyancy, and the end of the shaft was barbed with a keen flint, wrought by art to an edge such as our best workmen give to steel. Many were the chief men among these warriors, who approached us in full panoply of barbaric pomp. Turbans of white and crimson-stained cotton, such as the Turk is shown to wear, though folded in a still nobler fashion, were wrapped about their heads, over which shook bunches of plumes taken from the paroquet, the crane, and the eagle. Robes of cotton, white, or crimson, or scarlet, colored with native dies of the forest, clothed their loins, and fell flowing from their shoulders; and, ever and anon, as they came, they shook a thousand gourds which they had made to rattle with little pebbles, which, with their huge drum, wrought of the mammoth gourd, and covered with raw deer skin, made a clamor most astounding to our hapless ears. Thus they hailed our vessel, making it appear as if they intended to have fought us; but when they beheld how famishing we lay before them, with scarcely strength and courage enough to plead for mercy—speaking only through our dry and scalded eyes, and by clasping our hard and weary hands together—then it seemed as if they at once understood and felt for us; and they drew nigh with their canoes, and lowered their weapons, and darting with lithe sinews upon the sides of our leaning vessel, they held gourds of water to our lips, which cheered us while we swallowed, as with the sense of a fresh existence.

“Thus were we rescued from the yawning deep. The savages took us, with a rough kindness, from the wreck. They carried us in their canoes to the shore; and several were the survivors, as well women as men. They gave us food and nourishment, and when we were refreshed and strengthened, they separated us from our comrades, sharing us among our captors, each according to his rank, his power, or his favor with his sovereign. Seventeen of our poor Christians were thus scattered among the tribes and over the territories of the king of Calos. Some were kept in his household; but my hapless brother was not among them. He was given to a chief of the far tribes of the West, who made instant preparation to depart with him. When they would have borne us apart, with a swift bound and a common instinct, we buried ourselves in a mutual embrace. The chiefs looked on with a laugh that made us shudder; while he to whom my brother was given, with a savage growl, thrust his hands into the flowing locks of my brother, and hurled him away to the grasp of those who stood in waiting for the captive. He struggled once more to embrace me, and long after I could hear his cry—‘Brother, brother, shall we see each other never more!’ They heeded not his cries or struggles, or mine. They threw him to the ground with violence, bound him hand and foot, with gyves of the forest, and placing him in one of their great canoes, they sped away with him along the shores, as they treaded to the mighty West, where roll the great waters of the Mechachebe.

“Thus was I separated from my only surviving kinsman; and neither of us could tell the fate which was in waiting for the other. Verily, then did I look to find the worst. I no longer had a hope. It is my shame, as a Christian, that, in that desolate moment, I ceased to have a fear. I not only expected death, but I longed for it. I could have kissed the friendly hand that had driven the heavy stone hatchet of the savage into my brain. But, the Blessed Mother of God be praised, I thought not, in my despair, to do violence to my own self. That sin was spared me among my many sins, in that hour of despondency and woe; and all my crime consisted in the criminal indifference which made me too little heedful to preserve life. But this indifference lasted not long. I was the captive of the king of Calos himself. Nine others were kept by him including me, and among these was the cruel tyrant upon whose head lay the blood of so many of the wretched people of Mexico, Don Juan de Mores y Silva. He was the tyrant no longer. All his strength and courage had departed in his afflictions; and in the hour of our despair and terror, he was feebler than the meanest among us; feebler of soul than the girl whose heart beats with the dread that she cannot name, fearfully, as that of the little bird which you cover with your hand. We loathed him the worse for his miserable fear; and it made us all more resolute in courage to see one so cast down with his terrors, whom we had seen of late so insolent in his triumphs.

“When the lots were determined, the king of Calos drew nigh to examine us more heedfully. He had not before regarded us with any consideration. Verily, he was a noble savage to the eye. His person was tall, like one of the sons of Anak, and his carriage was that of a great warrior, born a prince, to whom it was natural equally to conquer and to rule. Rich were the garments of flowing cotton which he wore loosely, like a robe, mostly white, but with broad stains of crimson about the skirts and shoulders.

“A great baldrick hung suspended at his back, which bore a quiver, made of the skin of the rattle-snake, filled with arrows, each shaft better than a cloth-yard’s length. The macana which he carried in his grasp, was a mighty club of hard wood, close in grain, and weighty as stone, which, save at the grasp or handle, was studded with sharp blades of flint, which resembled it to the mighty blade of the sword-fish. With this weapon mine eyes have seen him smite down two powerful enemies at a single stroke. Great was his forehead and high, and his cheek bones stood forth like knots upon his face, as if the cheeks were guarded by a shield. Black was his piercing eye, which grew red and fiery when he was angered; and, at such seasons, it was easier for him to smite than to speak. Unlike his people, he wore the natural growth of his hair, long and flowing straight adown his back, glossy with its original blackness, and with the oil of the bear, of which, like all his people, the lord of Calos made plentiful use. This king might be full forty years of age. Yet looked he neither young nor old—neither so young that you might not hold him the gravest and best counsellor of wisdom in the land, nor so old, but that he might better and more ingeniously lead in battle than any of his warriors. Certes, he was the most ready first to march when the invasion of the distant tribes had been resolved on; and, of a truth, never was statesman in the great courts of Europe—not the counsellors of the great Carlos himself—so cool in speculation, so just in judgment, so heedful to consider all the advantages and all the risks of an enterprise, before the first step was set down in the adoption of a policy. For seven years had I sufficient means, in the immediate service of his household, to watch the courses of his thoughts and character, and to know the virtues and the strength thereof. I saw him devise among his chiefs, and inform them with his own devices. I have seen him lead in battle, when all the plans were his own, and it was his equal teaching and valiancy by which the field was won. Verily, I say that this lord of Calos were a prince to mate with the best in Europe; and, but that we have in European warfare such engines of mischief as come not within the use or knowledge of his race, it were difficult to circumvent him in stratagem, or overcome his braves in battle. With an hundred shot—no less—and employing at the same time all the red-men as allies, who are hostile to this king of Calos—and they are many—and I doubt not Monsieur Laudonniere, but that you could penetrate his dominions and make the conquest thereof. But of him could you make no conquest. He is a warrior of the proudest stomach, who would rather perish than lose the victory; and who, most surely, would never survive the overthrow of his dominion.

“Me, did this great king examine with more curious eyes than he bestowed upon the other captives. I know not for what reason, unless because of the superior size and strength which I possess, and the extreme length and thickness of my beard and hair, of which, as a Christian man, I have always made too much account. All of us did he assign to labor; to the gathering of wood, and work in the maize fields, with the women. By-and-by, there came a preference for me beyond the others. I was brought into the king’s household, and barbed his arrows, and wrought upon his great macanas, and strove, among the Indians, in hewing out his canoes from the cypress, first burning out the greater core with fire. But when harvest time came, a great festivity was held among the savages. Bitter roots were gathered in the woods, and great vessels of the beverage which was made thereof, was placed within the council or round-house of the nation. Thither did the chiefs resort and drink; and ever as they drank they danced, though the liquor wrought upon them like aguardiente with the European, and moved them even as the most violent of emetic medicines. Still danced they, and still they danced for the space of three whole days.—But the lord of Calos seemed not to mingle at this strange festival. He purposed rites still more strange—rites, which even now, I think upon with horror only. He had a dwelling to himself in the deep woods, whither he retired the night before the day when the great feast of the nation was to begin. Here he waited all the night, watching with reverence and patience the burning of a strange fire which had been wrought of many curious and fragrant herbs and roots. Three of the ancient people, the priests or Iawas, as they style themselves, retired with him to build this fire, which, when it began to burn, placing in store a sufficient supply of aromatic fuel that he might feed it still, they left him, with strange exorcising, to himself. And there he kept watch throughout the night. But early with the next morning he came forth, and he sprinkled the ashes of the fire upon the maize field, and he cried thrice, with a loud voice, of Yo-he-wah, which, I believe to mean the sacred name as known among the red-men. With each cry, as our poor Spaniards, myself among them, were gathering the green ears from the maize stalks, the priests who followed the king of Calos, seized bodily upon three of our brethren, taking us by surprise, and putting us all in a quaking fear. These three were all brought before the lord of Calos, who, not looking upon them as they lay bound at his feet, threw yet another vessel of sacred ashes into the air, and as these three Spaniards lay separate, with their faces looking up, I beheld the ashes sink immediately upon the breast of him whom I have already named to you—the Jonas by whom our vessel was doomed to wreck—the cruel Don Juan de Mores y Silva. Now, though the king surely looked not as he threw the ashes into the air, yet did it descend upon the breast of this said Spaniard, as certainly as if the eye and arm of this lord had been upon this particular person at the moment when he threw. Verily, though I know not well how it should be—being counselled by Holy Church against such belief—yet, verily, had this lord of Calos certain powers which did seem to justify the saying among his people, that he was a master of magic and of arts superior to those of common men.

“Now, when the Iawas, or priests, beheld where the ashes fell, they seized incontinently upon the Spaniard aforesaid. They bore him away from us, wondering and fearing all the while. But those who remained loosed the other two who had been bound, and they were set free with the rest, to pursue their labors in the corn-field. But we were not let to know the awful fate which befel the Spaniard who was taken. Verily, he saw his danger in the moment when the ashes lighted on his breast. His face was whiter than the blossom of the dogwood when it first opens to the spring. His eye glared, and his lip quivered like a leaf in the gusts of March, though nothing he spake at anything they did to him. But when they bore him away from our eyes, then a terrible fear and agony caused him to cry aloud—‘Oh! my countrymen, will you not save me from the bloody savage!’ I cannot soon forget that cry, which was clearly that of a person who beholds his doom. But of what avail? We had not the people, nor the strength, nor the weapons! A thousand savages danced wildly around the council-house, and the fields were full of these who came to drink and dance. Besides, we thought not of any danger but our own. We knew not how soon the fate was to befal us; for had it not seized upon Don Juan without a warning or a sign.

“They bore him to the secret tabernacle in the woods, where the lord of Calos watched alone. We saw not then, but afterwards we knew, what had been his fate. There they laid him upon a great mound of earth, with the sacred fire burning at his head in a large vessel of baked clay, formed with a nice art by the savages, and painted with the mystic figure of a bloody hand. The garments which he wore were taken off, and his limbs were fastened separately to great stakes driven in places about the mound. Thus were his hands and legs, his body and his very neck made fast, so that whatever might be the deed done upon him, he could oppose it not even in the smallest measure. But it was permitted him to cry aloud—and those of us who stole into the woods seeking to hear,—with a terrible curiosity which our very apprehensions fed,—we heard,—we heard,—and even as the awful scream of our late companion came piercing through the woods upon our ears,—we fled afar from the sound, which was that of a mortal agony and anguish. And, verily, the torture to which he was doomed was that which might well compel the poor outraged heart of humanity to cry aloud. With a keen knife, and the hand of one who had practised long at the cruel rite, the lord of Calos laid bare the breast of the victim, he not able to struggle even,—only to shriek,—he laid it bare as one peels the ripe fruit, and exposes the precious heart thereof! Even this did the lord of Calos. He stripped the skin from the breast of his victim, then, with sharp strokes, he smote away the flesh, until the quaking ribs lay bare to his point. With a sharp stone chisel he smote the breast-bone asunder, lifted the ribs, and tore away the smoking heart, which he cast, reeking red, into the burning fire of odorous woods and herbs, which then flamed up and brightened in the dark chamber, as if fed with some ichorous fuel. In that terrible agony, when the soul and the human life were thus rudely torn apart from the mutual embrace, it was told me by the lord of Calos, himself, that the victim burst one of the wythes that bound him, and freed his right hand, which he waved violently thrice, even while his murderer was plucking his heart away from its quivering fastenings! Oh! the horror, though for a moment only, of that awful consciousness! Verily, my friends, if the lord of Calos did possess a power of magic such as his people affirm, verily, I say, he paid a terrible price to the eternal hater of human souls, when he gat from him his perditious privilege!

“But the sufferings of that wretched victim, who then and thus perished, were they greater than those which followed our footsteps,—we, the survivors,—haunting us by night and day, with the mortal terrors of a fear that such must be our doom also? Every rustle of an approaching footstep among the maize-stalks where we toiled, breaking the stems and gathering the ripened ears, seemed to our woe-stricken souls, as the step of one who came as an executioner; while we labored in the gloomy thicket, gathering fuel for the winter fires, the same fear was hanging over us with a threat of the impending doom. We lived and slept in a continual dread of death, which made the hair whiten on every brow, even of the youngest, before that terrible winter was gone over.

“To us it was assigned to put away the body of our murdered comrade. But this was only after the three days of the feast was elapsed, and when the duty was tenfold distressing. Still, though all our senses revolted at the task, a fearful curiosity compelled a close examination of the victim. Then it was that we saw how the execution had been done, though we knew not then, nor until some time after, that the cell which enshrined and kept the heart had been torn open, and the sacred possession wrenched away with violent hands, even while the wretched victim had eyes to see, as well as sensibilities to feel, the sacrilegious and bloody theft. We bore the body far into the woods, wrapping it with leaves so as to hide it from our eyes, while we carried it in the bottom of an old canoe which we found for this purpose. Our burial was conducted after the fashion of the red-men. We laid the corse of our comrade upon a bed of leaves on the naked earth, and laid heavy fragments of pine and other combustible wood about him. With this we made a great pile, which we set on fire, and let to burn until everything was consumed. We then, with sad, sorrowing, and trembling hearts, returned, each one of us, in a mournful silence that wist not what to say, to our separate tasks, and the places which had been assigned us.

“Now, many months had passed in this manner, and still I was employed about the king’s household. This lord of Calos distinguished me, as I have said, beyond my comrades. I had a great vigor of limb which is not common among this people, except in so much as it moves them to great agility. They are rather light, swift and expert, than powerful in war; and trust rather to great cunning than superior strength, in the meeting with their enemies. The king of Calos greatly admired to see me lift heavy logs of timber, such as would have borne down any among his people if laid upon his shoulders. But he himself had a strength superior to his people, and he wondered even more when, striving to lift the logs which I laid down, he found it beyond his mastery. Then, he put his bow into my hand, and giving me a cloth-yard shaft of reed, well tipped with a flinty barb, and dressed with an eagle’s feather, he bade me draw it to the head, and send it as I would. Upon which, doing so, he greatly wondered to see how rapid and distant was the flight, for well he knew that the ability to shoot the arrow far comes rather from sleight than from strength, and is an art that only grows from practice. But this, perhaps, had not fully given me to the confidence of the king, had it not been for a service which I rendered on one occasion to his favorite son, a boy of but twelve years of age, whom I plucked from beneath the feet of a great stag, which the hunters had wounded in the forest. The red-men greatly delight to see their sons take part in the chase, even while their gristle is yet soft and their limbs feeble; for by this early practice they desired to make them strong and skilful. The son of the lord of Calos was a youth, tall and strong beyond his years; and because of the fondness of his father, exceedingly audacious in all manner of sports and strifes. Thus it was that, having seen a great stag wounded by the shaft of his sire, he had run in upon him with his slender spear. The staff of the spear broke, even as the barb penetrated the breast of the beast, and the boy fell forward at the mercy of his mighty antlers. Then was it that, seeing the lad’s danger,—for I was at hand, bearing the victuals for the hunters—I threw down the basket, and rushing in, took the stag by his horns, in season for the lad to recover himself. The lord of Calos drew nigh and saw, but he offered no help, leaving it to his son to draw the keen knife which he carried, over the throat of the struggling beast. And, excepting what the boy said to me of thanks, nothing did I hear of the thing which I had done. But, three weeks after, the king made his preparations, for a war party against the mountain Indians. Then he spoke to me, saying, in his own language,—which, by this time, I could understand,—Barbu,—this was the name which had been given me because of my beard—Barbu, it is not fit that one with such limbs and skill as thou hast, should labor still in the occupation of the women. Get thee a spear, such as will suit thy grasp, and there are bows and arrows for thy choice,—make thee satisfied with sufficient provision, and get thee ready to go against mine enemies. Thou shalt have to tear the flesh of a strong man!

“Verily, my friends, though it shames me to confess, that I, a Christian man, could lift weapon in behalf of one against another savage of the wilderness; yet such had been my sorrow, and so wretched did I feel at the base tasks to which I had been given,—so very unlike the valiant duties which had distinguished mine ancient service in the armies of Castile,—that I even rejoiced at the chance of putting on the armor of war,—and the meaner weapon of the red-men satisfied me then, who of old had carried, with great favor, the matchlock and the sword. But the weapon of the savage, as perchance thou knowest, is not greatly inferior, according to their usage, and in their country, to the superior implements with which the Christian warrior takes the field. If the arquebuse is more fatal than the barbed arrow of the Indian, it is yet less frequently ready for the danger. While you shall have put your pieces in readiness for a second fire, the savage will deliver thirty javelins, each of which, if within bullet reach, shall inflict such an injury, short of death, as may disarm the wounded person. Their reeds are always ready at hand. To them every bay and river bank affords an armory, and the loss of their weapons, which were fatal to Frenchman or Spaniard, causes them but little mischief, since a single night will repair all their losses. Neither much time nor much cost is it to them to supply their munitions, of which they can always carry a more abundant provision than can we. The great superiority of the European, in his encounter with the red-man, is in his wisdom, the fruit of many ages of civilization, and not in the weapons which he wields in conflict. Let him exchange weapons with the savage, and he will still obtain the victory.

“It was because of this showing of superiority, together with the service which I had thus rendered to his son, that made the lord of Calos take me with him, armed as a warrior, on his expedition against the mountain Indians of Apalachy. I hastened to provide myself with weapons, as I was commanded, and I made for myself a great mace, such as that which the strongest warriors carried, which was a billet of hard wood, not more than four feet in length, with a handle easy to the grasp, while at each side ran down a great row of flinty teeth, each broad and sharpened like to a spear-head. It is a fatal weapon, with a well-delivered blow. In like manner did I imitate the practice of the red-men in dressing the head and breast for war. I put on the paints, red and black, which I beheld them use; but, instead of the unmeaning and rude figures which they scored upon the breast, I drew there the figure of a large cross, by which, though none but myself might know, I made anew my assurance to Holy Mother, of a faith unperishing, in Him who bore its burthen; and implored His protection against the perils which might lurk along the path. In the same manner, with a bloody cross, did I inscribe my forehead and each cheek, while I dipped my hands above the wrist in the black dyes which they also used as paints, and which they took from the walnut and other woods of the forest. Greatly did my Christian comrades wonder to behold me, painted after this fashion, with a bunch of turkey feathers tied about my head like the savage, and the strange weapons of the red-men in my grasp. These rejoiced exceedingly as they beheld me, and laughed and chatted among themselves, saying—‘Yah-hee-wee! Yah-hee-wee!’ with other words, by which they testified their satisfaction. But our Spaniards were in the same degree sorry, as it seemed to them that, in spite of the holy emblem upon my breast, I had delivered myself up to the enemy, and had put on, with the habit, all the superstitions of the Heathen. They had sorrow upon other grounds, since I was about to leave them, and, from the favor I had found with the lord of Calos, I had grown to be one to whom they began to look as to a mediator and protector.

“We set out thus for the country of the enemy, the lord of Calos leading the way upon the march, as is the custom with the Indians, while the foe is yet at a distance from the spot. But, as we drew nigh to the hills of the Apalachian, the young men were scattered on every hand, as so many light troops. They covered all the paths, they harbored in all places where they could maintain watch and find security, and nightly they sent in runners to the camp, reporting their discoveries. I entreated of the lord of Calos to be sent with these young men; but, whether he feared that I would seek an opportunity to fly and escape to the enemy, I know not. He refused, saying that it required scouts of experience,—men who knew the ways of the country, and that I could be of no use in such adventures. He was pleased to add that he wished me near him, as one of his own warriors—that is, the warriors of his family or tribe—that I might do battle at his side, and in his sight!

“We were not long in finding the enemy, who had received tidings of our approach. Several battles were fought, in which I did myself credit in the eyes of our warriors. The lord of Calos was greatly pleased. He took me with him into counsel, and it was fortunate that the advice which I gave, as to the conduct of the war, was adopted, and was greatly successful. Many were the warriors of the mountain whom we slew. Many scalps were taken, and more than a hundred captive boys and damsels. These, if young, are always spared, and taken into the conquering tribe. The former are newly marked with the totem of the people who take them, while the latter become the wives of the chiefs, who greatly value them. I confess to you, my brethren, that I was guilty of the sin of taking one of these same women into my cabin, who was to me as a wife, though no holy priest, with appointed ceremonials of the church, gave his sanction to our communion. She was a lovely and a loving creature, scarcely sixteen, but very fair, almost like a Spaniard, and of hair so long that she hath thrice wrapt it around her own neck and mine.”

“Why didst thou not tell me of that woman?” said Laudonniere, interrupting the narrator. “Had we known, she should have been procured with thee. But, even now, it is not too late. We will bid the chief, Onathaqua, send her after thee, so that thou may’st wed her according to the rites of the church.”

“Alas!” replied Barbu, “thou compellest me, Señor Laudonniere, to unravel sin after sin before thee. I have greatly erred and wandered from the paths of virtue, and from the laws of Holy Church, in my grievous sojourn among the savages. That woman filled no longer the place which she had at first in my affections. With increase of power and security, I grew wanton. I grew weary of her, and sold her to one of the chiefs for a damsel of his own house, which mine eyes coveted.”

The Spaniard hung his head as he made this confession, while Laudonniere with severe aspect rated him for his lecheries. When the captain had ceased his rebuke, Le Barbu continued his story thus:

“We gained many battles in this war with the mountain Indians, who are neither so fierce, nor so subtle as those who dwell along the regions of the sea. Verily, the people of the lord of Calos are great dissemblers, treacherous beyond the serpent, valiant of their persons, and fight with excellent address. Great was the favor which I found with them because of my conduct in the war; and, in each succeeding war, for a space of six years, I became, in like manner, distinguished, until I became a most favorite chief with the lord of Calos, and a bosom friend and companion of his son—he whom I had rescued from the stag, and who had now grown up to manhood. Greatly did this lad favor his father. He was of a light olive complexion, scarcely more dark than the people of Spanish race, but superior in stature, well-limbed, and of admirable dexterity. With him I hunted from the fall of the leaf in autumn, to the budding of the leaf again in spring; and, when the summer time came, we sped away in our canoes, up the vast rivers of the country, through great lakes, many of which lie embadey in forests of mangrove and palm, where the forest swims upon the water. If it were possible for a Christian man—for one who has heard the sound of a great bell in the cities of the old world, and who has communed with the various good and wondrous things of civilization—to be content with a loss of these, and their utter exclusion from sight for ever, then might I have passed pleasantly the years of my captivity among the people of Calos. I had become a chief and was greatly honored. I had power and I was much feared. I had wealth—such wealth as the savage estimates—and I was loved; and the lord of Calos and his noble son, put in me a faith which never betrayed a doubt or a denial. But I had not power to shield my brother Christians, save in one case. Each year witnessed the sacrifice of a comrade. They were the victims to the Iawas. The priesthood was a power under which the kings themselves were made to tremble. With them was it to determine upon peace or war, life or death, bonds or freedom; and the strength of the king lay greatly in his alliance with the priesthood. But for this, the rule among the savage nations would be wholly with the people. Season after season, when came the harvest, one of our luckless Spaniards was taken away from the rest and doomed to the sacrifice. In this way the savages propitiate the unknown God, to whom they looked for victory over their enemies. Do not suppose that I beheld this cruelty without toiling against it. But I spoke in vain. I made angry the Iawas, until the lord of Calos himself addressed me, after this fashion—‘Son of the stranger, art thou not well thyself? Why wouldst thou be sick, being well? Art thou not thyself safe? Why, being so, put thy head under the macana? It is not wise in thee to see the things over which the power is denied thee. Go then, with Mico Wa-ha-la,’—such was the name of his son—‘go then with him into the great lake of the forest, and come not back for a season. Depart thou thus, always, when the maize is ready for the harvest.’

“I obeyed him; but not until I found that I was endangering my own safety to attempt further expostulation; and then it was that my companions perished, all save the one who now sits before thee with myself, and whom I saved because of a service which I rendered to the Iawa, and whom I persuaded to take my white brother into his wigwam. He went, even before myself, but through my means, into the service of Onathaqua.”

Here Captain Laudonniere interrupted the speaker.

“For what reason,” said he, “being such a favorite with the king of Calos and his son, didst thou at last leave his service for that of the King Onathaqua?”

“Alas, Señor Laudonniere, thy question shames me again, since it requires of me to lay bare another of the vices of my evil heart, and to confess how the bad passions thereof could lead me into follies which proved fatal to my better fortune. I had gained great honor among the savages by my prudence and my skill in war, my strength in battle, and the excellence of my counsel in the country of the enemy. I had gained the good will and protection of the great king of Calos, and the affection of his son, the noble young Mico Wa-ha-la! But these contented me nothing, though they brought plenty and security to my wigwam, and such delights as might satisfy the man, a dweller in the wilderness. I have said that I was greatly trusted by the king, the prince, and the head men of the country. These then, after I had been eight years in their service, confided to my charge a great and sacred commission. The time had come when it became proper that this Mico Wa-ha-la should take to himself a wife. Now, tidings had reached Calos of a creature, lovely as a daughter of the sun, who was the youngest child of the King Onathaqua. A treaty was agreed upon between the two kings for the marriage of their children; and I was dispatched, with a select body of warriors, to bring the maiden home to her new sovereign. It was not the custom for a chief desiring a wife, that he should seek her in person. Accordingly

I was dispatched, and I reached the territories of Onathaqua in safety. Here I beheld the maiden in pursuit of whom I came, and my froward heart instantly conceived the wildest affection for her beauty. Beautiful she was as any of our Castilian maidens, and as delicate and modestly proper in her bearing, as one may see in the gentlest damsel of a Christian country. Deeply was I smitten with this new flame, and greatly did I strive to please the maiden who had fired me with these fresh fancies. I spake with her in the Indian language, with charms of thought which had been taken from the Castilian, such as were vastly superior to those which belonged to Indian courtship. I sang to her many a glorious ballad of the sweet romance of my country, discoursing of the tender loves between the Castilian cavaliers and the dark-eyed and dark-tressed maidens of Grenada. Verily, the beauty of the delicate daughter of Onathaqua, the precious Istakalina—by which the people of Onathaqua understand the white lily of the lake before it opens—was no unbecoming representative of that choice dark beauty which made the charm of the Moorish damsel of my land, ere Boabdil gave up his sceptre into the hands of the holy Ferdinand. For Istakalina, I rendered the language of the Castilian romance into the dialect of her people; and with a sad fondness in her eyes, that drooped ever while looking upwards at the passionate gaze of mine, did she listen to the story of feelings and affections to which her own young and innocent nature did now tenderly incline. Thus was it that she was delivered into my keeping by her sire, that I should conduct her to the young Mico Wa-ha-la, my friend. And thus, with fond discourse of song and story, which grew more fond with every passing hour—with me to speak and she to listen—did we commence our journey homeward to the dominions of the lord of Calos. Alas! for me, and alas! for the hapless maiden, that, in the fondness of my passion, I forgot my trust; forgot preciously to guard and protect the precious treasure in my keeping; and, in the increase of my blind love, forgot all the lessons of war and wisdom, and all the necessary providence which these equally demand. Thus was it that I was dispossessed of my charge, at the very moment when it was most dear to my delight. Didst thou ask me for the hope which grew with this blind passion, verily, señor, I should have to say to thee that I had none. I thought not of the morrow; I dared not think of the time when Istakalina should fill the cabin of Wa-ha-la. I knew nothing but that she was with me, with her dark eyes ever glistening beneath their darker lids, as she met the burning speech of mine; that we thridded the sinuous paths of silent and shady forests, with none to reproach our speech or glances; our attendants, some of them going on before, and some following; and that, when she ascended the litter, which was borne by four stout savages, or sat in the canoe as we sped across lake or river—for both of these modes of travel did we at times pursue—I was still the nearest to her side, drunk with her sweet beauty, and the sad tenderness which dwelt in all her looks and actions. Nor was it less my madness that I fondly set to the account of her fondness for me, the very sadness with which she answered my looks, and the sweet sigh which rose so often to her softly parted lips. Verily, was never man and Christian so false and foolish as was I, in those bitter blessed moments. Thus was I blinded to all caution—thus was I heedless of all danger—thus was I caught in the snare, to the loss of all that was precious as well to my captor as myself.”

“How was this? How happened it?” demanded Laudonniere as Le Barbu paused, and covered his face with his hands in silence, as if overcome with a great misery.

“Thou shalt hear, Señor. I will keep nothing from thee of this sad confession; for, verily, have I long since repented of the sin and folly which brought after them so much evil. Thou shalt know that, distant from the territories of the lord of Calos, a journey of some three days, and nearly that far distant also from the dwelling of Onathaqua, there lieth a great lake of fresh water, in the midst of which is an island named Sarropee. This island and the country which surrounds the lake, is kept by a very powerful nation, a fierce people, not so numerous as strong, because they have places of retreat and refuge, whither no enemy dare pursue them. On the firm land, and in open conflict, the lord of Calos had long before conquered this strange people; but in their secure harborage and vast water thickets, they mocked at the power of all the surrounding kings. These, accordingly, kept with them a general peace, which was seldom broken, except under circumstances such as those which I shall now unfold. The people of this lake and island are rich in the precious root called the Coonti, of which they have an abundance, of a quality far superior to that of all the neighboring country. Their dates, which give forth a delicious honey, are in great abundance also, and of these their traffic is large with all other nations. But that they are a most valiant people, and occupy a territory so troublesome to penetrate, they had been destroyed by other nations, all of whom are greedy for the rich productions which their watery realm bestows. Now, it was, that, in our journey homewards, we drew nigh to the great lake of the people of the isle of Sarropee. Here it was that my discretion failed me in my passion. Here it was that my footstep faltered, and the vision of mine eyes was completely shut. I knew that our people were at peace with the people of Sarropee, and I thought not of them. But had I not been counselled to vigilance in bringing home the daughter of Onathaqua, even as if the woods were thick with enemies? But I had forgotten this caution. I sent forth no spies; I sought for no wisdom from my young warriors; and, like an ignorant child that knows not of the deep gulf beneath, I stepped confidently into the little canoe which was to take Istakalina and myself across an arm of the lake which set inwards, while our warriors fetched a long compass around it. Alas! señor, I was beguiled to this folly by the fond desire that I might have the lovely maiden wholly to myself in the little canoe, for already did I begin to grieve with the thought that in a few days, the journey would be at an end, and I should then yield her unto the embraces of another. And thus we entered the canoe. I made for her a couch, in the bottom of the little boat, of leaves gathered from the scented myrtle. With the paddle in my hand, I began to urge the vessel, but very slowly, lest that we should too soon reach the shore, and find the warriors waiting for us. Sweetly did I strive to discourse in her listening ears; and with what dear delight did I behold her as she answered me only with her tears. But these were as the cherished drops of hope about mine heart, which gave it a life which it never knew before. While thus we sped, dreaming nothing of any danger, over the placid waters, with the dark green mangrove about us, and a soft breeze playing on the surface of the great lake, suddenly, from out the palm bushes, darted a cloud of boats, filled with painted warriors, that bore down upon us with shows of fury and a mighty shout of war. I answered them with a shout, not unlike their own, for already had I imbibed something of the Indian nature. I shouted the war-whoop of the lord of Calos, and tried to make myself heard by the distant warriors that formed my escort. And they did hear my clamors; for already had they rounded the bayou or arm of the lake which I had sought to cross, and were pressing down towards us upon the opposite banks. Then did I bestir the paddle in my grasp, making rapid progress for the shore, while the canoes of the Sarropee strove to dart between us and the place for which I bent. But what could my single paddle avail against their better equipment? Theirs were canoes of war, carrying each more than a score of powerful warriors armed for action, and prepared to peril their lives in the prosecution of their object. I, too, was armed as an Indian warrior, and with their approach, I betook me to my weapon. I had learned to throw the short lance, or the javelin of the savage, with a dexterity like his own; and, ere they could approach me, I had fatally struck with these darts two of their most valiant warriors. They strove not to return the arrows lest they should hurt the maiden, Istakalina, who had raised herself at the first danger, and now strove with the paddle which I had thrown down. As one of the canoes which threatened us drew nigh, I seized the great macana which I carried, and prepared myself to use it upon the most forward warriors; but when I expected that they would assail me with war-club and spear, the cunning savages thrust their great prow against our little boat, amidships, and even while my macana lighted on the head of one of the assailants, smiting him fatally, I fell over into the lake with the upsetting of our vessel. In a moment had they grasped Istakalina from the lake, and taken her to themselves in their own canoe, and as I raised my head from the water, beholding this mishap, a heavy stroke upon my shoulder, which narrowly missed my head, warned me of my danger. Then, seeing that I could no longer save the captive maiden, I dived deeply under, making my way like an otter, beneath the water, for the shore. A flight of arrows followed my rising to take the air, but they were hurriedly delivered, with little aim, and only one of them grazed my cheek. The mark is still here as thou seest. Again I dived beneath the water, still swimming shoreward, and when I next rose into the light and air, I was among the people of the lord of Calos. They were now assembled along the banks of the lake, as near as they could go to the enemy, some of them, indeed, having waded waist deep in their wild fury and desperate defiance. But of what avail were their weapons or their rage? The maiden, Istakalina, the princess and the betrothed of Wa-ha-la, was gone. The people of the Sarropee had borne her off, heeding me little even as they had taken her. She was already far off, moving towards the centre of the lake, and faint were the cries which now came from her, though it delighted my poor vain heart, in that desperate hour, to perceive that, in her last cries, it was my unhappy name that she uttered. They bore her away to the secret island where they dwelt, in secure fastnesses; and long and fruitless, though full of desperation, was the war that followed for her recovery. But, though I myself fought in this war, as I never have fought before, yet did I not dare to do battle under the eye, or among the warriors of the lord of Calos. I fled from his sight and from the reproaches of my friend, the Mico Wa-ha-la, for, in my soul, I felt how deep had been my guilt, and my conscience did not dare the encounter with their eyes. I took refuge with Onathaqua, the father of Istakalina; and when he knew of the valor with which I strove against the captivity of the maiden, he forgave me that I lost her through my own imprudence. Of the blind and selfish passion which prompted that imprudence, he did not dream, and he so forgave me. Under his lead, I took up arms against the tribes of Sarropee, and for two years did the war continue, with great slaughter and distress among the several nations. But, in all our battles, I kept ever on the northern side of the great lake, and never allowed myself to join with the warriors of Calos. They but too well conceived my guilt. The keen eyes of mine escort distinguished my passion, and saw that it was not ungracious in the sight of Istakalina. Too truly did they report us to the lord of Calos, and to my friend, the young Mico Wa-ha-la. Bitter was the reproach which he made me in a last gift which he sent me, while I dwelt with Onathaqua. It consisted of a single arrow, from which depended a snake skin, with the warning rattles still hanging thereto. ‘Say to the bearded man,’ said the Mico, ‘when you give him this, that it comes from Wa-ha-la. Tell him that his friend sends him this, in token that he knows how much he hath been wronged. Say to the bearded man, that Wa-ha-la had but one flower of the forest, and that his friend hath gathered it. Let his friend beware the arrow of the warrior, and the deadly fang of the war-rattle, for the path between us is everywhere sown with the darts of death.’

“Thus he spake, and I was silent. I was guilty. I could not excuse myself, and did not entreat. I felt the truth of his complaint and the justice of his anger. I felt how great had been my folly and my crime. Istakalina was lost to us both. Thus then, a fugitive, and an outlaw from Calos, dreading every moment the vengeance of Wa-ha-la and his warriors, I dwelt for seven years with Onathaqua, who hath ever treated me as a son. I have fought among his warriors, and shared the fortunes of his people, of which nothing more need be said. Tidings at length came to me, of a people in the country bearded like myself. Then came your messengers to Onathaqua, and you behold me here. I looked not for Frenchmen but for Spaniards. I thank and praise the Blessed Mother of God, that I have found friends if not countrymen, and that I see, once more, the faces of a Christian people.”

Thus ended the narrative of Le Barbu, or the Bearded Man of Calos.

[XVIII.]
HISTORICAL SUMMARY.

We have already mentioned that, with the restoration of Laudonniere to power, and the complete subjection of his mutineers, he resumed by degrees his projects of exploration and discovery. Among other places to which he sent his barks, was the territory of King Audusta, occupying that region in which Fort Charles had been erected by Ribault, in the first attempt to colonize in the country. To Audusta, himself, were sent two suits of apparel, with knives, hatchets and other trifles; “the better,” as Laudonniere says, “to insinuate myselfe into his friendship.” To render this hope more plausible, “I sent in the barke, with Captaine Vasseur, a souldier called Aimon, which was one of those which returned home in the first voyage, hoping that King Audusta might remember him.” This Aimon was instructed to inquire after another soldier named Rouffi, who, it appears, had preferred remaining in the country, when it had been abandoned by the colonists under Nicolas Barré.

Audusta received his visitors with great favor,—sent back to Laudonniere a large supply of “mil, with a certaine quantity of beanes, two stagges, some skinnes painted after their manner, and certaine pearles of small value, because they were burnt.” The old chief invited the Frenchmen once more to remove and plant in his territories. He proffered to give him a great country, and would always supply him with a sufficient quantity of grain. Audusta had known the Frenchmen almost entirely by benefits and good fellowship. The period of this visit to Audusta, which was probably in the month of December, is distinguished in the chronicle of Laudonniere, by expressions of delightful surprise at the number of stock doves (wild pigeons) which came about the garrison—“in so greate number, that, for the space of seven weekes together,” they “killed with harquebush shot at least two hundred every day.” This was good feeding. On the return of Capt. Vasseur from his visit to Audusta, he was sent with a present “unto the widow of Kinge Hiocaia, whose dwelling was distant from our fort about twelve leagues northward. She courteously received our men, sent me backe my barkes, full of mil and acornes, with certaine baskets full of the leaves of cassine, wherewith they make their drinke. And the place where this widow dwelleth, is the most plentifull of mil that is in all the coast, and the most pleasante. It is thought that the queene is the most beautiful

of all the Indians, and of whom they make the most account: yea, and her subjects honour her so much that almost continually they beare her on their shoulders, and will not suffer her to go on foot.”

The visit of Laudonniere, through his lieutenant, was returned, in a few days, by the beautiful widow, through her Hiatiqui, “which is as much as to say, her Interpreter.”

Laudonniere continued his explorations, still seeking provisions, and with the view to keeping his people from that idleness which hitherto had caused such injurious discontents in his garrison. His barks were sent up May River, to discover its sources, and make the acquaintance of the tribes by which its borders were occupied. Thirty leagues beyond the place called Mathiaqua, “they discovered the entrance of a lake, upon the one side whereof no land can be seene, according to the report of the Indians, which had oftentimes climbed on the highest trees in the country to see land, and notwithstanding could not discerne any.”

These few sentences may assist in enabling the present occupants of the St. John’s to establish the location along that river, at the period of which we write. The ignorance of the Indians in regard to the country opposite, along the lake, indicates equally the presence of numerous tribes, and the absence of much adventure or enterprise among them—results that would seem equally to flow from the productive fertility of the soil, and the abundance of the game in the country. With this account of it as a terra incognita, the explorers ceased to advance. In returning, they paid a visit to the island of Edelano—one of those names of the Indians, which harbors in the ear with a musical sweetness which commends it to continued utterance. We should do well to employ it now in connection with some island spot of rare beauty in the same region.

This island of Edelano is “situated in the midst of the river; as fair a place as any that may be seene thorow the world; for, in the space of some three leagues that it may containe, in length and breadth, a man may see an exceedingly rich countrey and marvellously peopled. At the coming out of the village of Edelano, to goe unto the river side, a man must passe thorow an alley about three hundred paces long and fifty paces broad; on both sides whereof great trees are planted, the boughes whereof are tied [blended?] together like an arch, and meet together so artificially [as if done by art] that a man would thinke it were an arbour made of purpose, as faire, I say, as any in all Christendom, although it be altogether naturall.”

Leaving the island of Edelano, thus equally famous for its beauties of nature and name, our voyagers proceeded “to Eneguape, then to Chilily, from thence to Patica, and lastly they came unto Coya.” This place seems to have been, at this period, one of the habitations of the powerful king Olata Utina. In the name Olata, we find an affix such as is common to the Seminoles and Creeks of the present day. Holata, as we now write the word, is evidently the Olata of Laudonniere. It was probably a title rather than a name.[23] Olata Utina received his visitors with great favor, as he had always done before; and six of them were persuaded to remain with him, in order the better to see the country, while their companions returned to La Caroline. Some of these remained with the Indian monarch more than two months. One of them, named Groutald, a gentleman who had taken great pains in this exploration, reported to Laudonniere that he had never seen a fairer country. “Among other things, he reported to me that he had seene a place, named Hostaqua, and that the king thereof was so mighty, that he was able to bring three or four thousand savages into the field.” Of this king we have heard before. It was the counsel of Monsieur Groutald to Laudonniere that he should unite in a league with this king, and by this means reduce the whole country into subjection. “Besides, that this king knew the passages unto the mountaine of Apalatci, which the Frenchmen desired so greatly to attaine unto, and where the enemy of Hostaqua made his abode, which was easie to be subdued, if so be wee would enter into league together.” Hostaqua sent to Laudonniere “a plate of a minerall that came out of this mountaine,—out of the foote whereof”—such was the glowing account given by the Indian monarch—“there runneth a streame of golde or copper.” The process by which the red-men obtain the pure treasures of this golden stream was an exceedingly primitive one, and reminds us of the simple process of gathering golden sands in California. “They dig up the sand with an hollow and drie cane of reed, until the cane be full; afterward they shake it, and find that there are many small graines of copper and silver among this sand; which giveth them to understand that some rich mine must needs be in the mountaine.” Laudonniere is greatly impressed by this intelligence, “and because the mountaine was not past five or six days journey from our fort, lying towards the north-west, I determined, as soone as our supply should come out of France, to remove our habitation unto some river more towards the north, that I might be nearer thereunto.”

An incident, which occurred about this time, still further increased the appetites of Laudonniere. He had suffered, and indeed sent, certain favorite soldiers to go into several parts of the country, among the savage tribes with whom he kept terms of amnesty and favor, in order that they should acquire as well a knowledge of the Indian language as of the country. One of these was named Peter Gambier. This man had rambled somewhat farther than his comrades. He had shared in all the more adventurous expeditions of the Indians, and had succeeded in gathering a considerable quantity of gold and silver, all of which was understood to have been directly or indirectly from the Indians, who dwelt at the foot of the Apalachian Mountains. These were tribes of the Cherokee nation, with whom the Indian nations along the sea-board were perpetually at war. Full of news, and burdened with his treasure, Peter Gambier prepared to return to La Caroline. He had made his way in safety until he reached the beautiful island with the beautiful name, Edelano, lying in the midst of but high up May River. On the same stream which was occupied by his countrymen, in force, the thoughtless soldier conceived himself to be quite safe. He was hospitably entertained by the chief or king of Edelano, and a canoe was accorded him, with two companions, with whom to descend the river to the fort. But the improvident Frenchman, allowed his precious treasures to glitter in the eyes of his host. He had not merely gold and silver, but he had been stocked with such European merchandises as were supposed most likely to tempt the savages to barter. A portion of this stock remained in his possession. The natural beauties of the island which they occupied had not softened the hearts of the savages with any just sense of humanity. They were as sensible to the auri sacra fames as were the Europeans, and just as little scrupulous, we shame to say it, in gratifying their appetites as their pale-faced visitors. The possessions of the Frenchmen were sufficient to render the Mico of Edelano indifferent to all considerations of hospitality, and the two Indians whom he lent to Gambier were commissioned to take his life. Thus, accompanied by his assassins, he entered the canoe, and they were in progress down the river, when, as the Frenchman stooped over some fish which he was seething in the boat, the red-men seized the opportunity to brain him with their stone hatchets, and possess themselves of his treasures. When the tidings came to Laudonniere, he was not in a situation to revenge the crime; but the large acquisitions of gold and silver procured by his soldier, as reported to him, confirmed him in his anxiety to penetrate these tantalizing realms, in which the rivers ran with such glittering abundance from rocks whose caverns promised to outvie all that Arabian story had ever fabled of the magical treasures of Aladdin.

Scarcely had this event taken place, when the war was renewed between Olata Utina and Potanou. The former applied for assistance to Laudonniere, who, adopting the policy of the “Spaniards, when they were imployed in their conquests, who did alwayes enter into alliance with some one king to ruine another,” readily sent him thirty arquebusiers, under Lieutenant Ottigny. These, with three hundred Indians, led by Utina, penetrated the territories of Potanou, and had a severe fight, which lasted for three hours, with the people of that potentate. “Without doubt, Utina had been defeated, unlesse our harquebusiers had borne the burthen and brunt of all the battell, and slaine a great number of the soldiers of Potanou, upon which occasion they were put to flight.” The lieutenant of the French would have followed up the victory, but Utina, the Paracoussi, had gathered laurels quite enough for a single day, and was anxious to return home to show his scalps and enjoy his triumphs among his people. His tribes and villages were assembled at his return, and, for several days, nothing but feasts, songs and dances, employed the nation. Ottigny returned to the fort, after two days spent in this manner with Utina, and his return was followed by visits from numerous other chiefs, nearer neighbors than Utina, and enemies of that savage, who came to expostulate with Laudonniere against his lending succor to a prince who was equally faithless and selfish. They, on the other hand, entreated him to unite with them in the destruction of one who was a common enemy. This application had been made to him before; but his policy had been rather to maintain terms of alliance, offensive and defensive, with a powerful chieftain, at some little distance, than to depend wholly upon others more near at hand. This policy was again drawn from that of the Spaniard. He was soon to be taught how little was the reliance which he could place in any of the forest tribes. He was about to suffer from those deficiencies and evils which were due to his anxious explorations of the country, when his people had been much better employed in the wholesome labors of the field, in the very eye of the garrison.

It was the custom of the Indian tribes, after the gathering and storing away of their harvests, to commence hunting with the first fall of the leaves, probably about the middle of September. The chase, during this period, was seldom such as to carry them far from the fields which they had watched during the summer. Near at hand, for a season at least, the game was in sufficient quantity to supply their wants. But, as the season advanced, and towards the months of January, February and March, they gradually passed into the deeper thickets, and disappeared from their temporary habitations. During this period, they build up new abodes, which are equally frail, in the regions to which they go, and which are contiguous to the hunting-grounds which they are about to penetrate. To these retreats the whole tribe retires; and hither they carry all the commodities which are valuable in their eyes. Their summer dwellings are thus as completely stripped as if the region were abandoned forever.

This removal, for which their previous experience should sufficiently have prepared our Frenchmen, was yet destined to have for them some very pernicious results. We have seen that certain subsidies of corn and beans had been procured from various tribes and nations; enough, according to Laudonniere, to serve them until the arrival of expected succors from France. But, calculating on these succors, and confident of their arrival during the month of April, our Frenchmen had become profligate of their stores. April found them straitened for provisions, and not an Indian could be seen. April passed slowly and brought no succor. With the month of May the Indians had returned to their former abodes; but, by this time, their remaining stock of grain had mostly found its way into the ground, in the setting of another crop. From the savages, accordingly, nothing but scanty supplies of fish could be procured, without which, says Laudonniere, “assuredly wee had perished from famine.” Of the incompetence of this captain, and the wretched order which prevailed among his garrison, his incapacity and other incompetence, this statement affords sufficient proof. They neither tilled the earth for its grain, nor sounded the river for its finny tribes; though these realms were quite as much under their dominion as that of the savages; but they relied solely upon this capricious and inferior race, in the exploration of land and sea, for maintaining them against starvation.

May succeeded to April, and still in vain did our Frenchmen look forth upon the sea, for the ships of their distant countrymen. June came, and their wants increased. They fell finally into famine, of which Laudonniere himself affords us a sufficiently impressive picture.

“We were constrayned to eate rootes, which the most part of our men punned in the mortars which I had brought with me to beate gunnepowder in, and the graine which came to us from other places. Some tooke the wood of esquine, (?) beate it, and made meale thereof, which they boiled with water, and eate it. Others went with their harquebusies to seeke to kill some foule. Yea, this miserie was so great, that that one was founde that had gathered up all the fish-bones that he could finde, which he dried and beate into powder to make bread thereof. The effects of this hidious famine appeared incontinently among us, for our bones eftsoones beganne to cleave so neare unto the skinne, that the most part of the souldiers had their skinnes pierced thorow with them in many partes of their bodies, in such sort that my greatest feare was, least the Indians would rise up against us, considering that it would have beene very harde for us to have defended ourselves in such extreme decay of all our forces, besides the scarsitie of all vittualls, which fayled us all at once. For the very river had not such plentie of fish as it was wont, and it seemed that the very land and water did fight against us.” In this condition were they till the beginning of June. “During which time,” says the chronicler, further—“the poore souldiers and handicraftsmen became as feeble as might be, and being not able to worke, did nothing but goe, one after another, as centinels, unto the clift of an hill, situate very neare unto the fort, to see if they might discover any French ship.”

But their watchings still ended with disappointment. Thus was the hope with which the heart sickens, deferred too long. No ships greeted their famishing eyes, and they at length appealed to their commander, in a body, to take measures for returning to France, and abandoning the colony,—“considering that if wee let passe the season to embarke ourselves, wee were never like to see our country;” and alleging, plausibly enough, that new troubles had probably broken out in France, which was the reason that they had failed to receive the promised succors. Laudonniere lent an easy ear to their demands. He, himself, was probably quite as sick of the duties, to which he was evidently unequal, as were his followers. It was, perhaps, prudent to submit to those for whom he could no longer provide. The bark “Breton” was fitted up, and given in charge to Captain Vasseur; and, as this vessel could carry but a small portion of the colony, it was determined to build a “faire ship,” which the shipwrights affirmed could be made ready by the 8th of August. “Immediately I disposed of the time to worke upon it. I gave charge to Monsieur de Ottigny, my lieutenant, to cause timber necessary for the finishing of bothe the vessels to be brought, and to Monsieur D’Erlach, my standard-bearer, to goe with a barke a league off from the forte, to cut down trees fit to make plankes.” Sixteen men, under the charge of a sergeant, were set “to labour in making coals; and to Master Hance, keeper of the artillery,” was assigned the task of procuring rosin to bray the vessels. “There remained now but the principal, [object,] which was to recover vittualls, to sustain us while the worke endured.” Laudonniere, himself, undertook to seek for this supply. He embarked with thirty men in the largest of his vessels, with the purpose of running along the coast for forty or fifty leagues. But his search was taken in vain. He procured no supplies. He returned to the fort only to defraud the expectations of his people, who now grew desperate with hunger and discontent. They assembled together, riotously, and, with one voice, insisted that the only process by which to extort supplies from the savages was to seize upon the person of their kings.

To this, at first, Laudonniere would not consent. The enterprise was a rash one. The consequences might be evil, in regard to any future attempts at settlement. He proposed one more trial among them, and sent despatches communicating his desire to traffic for food with the surrounding tribes. The Indians were not averse to listen. But they knew the distress under which the Frenchmen suffered, and were prepared to turn it to account. They came into the garrison with small supplies of grain and fish, enough to provoke appetite rather than to satisfy it. For these they demanded such enormous prices, as, if conceded, would have soon exhausted all the merchandise of the garrison. With one hand they extended their produce, while the other was stretched for the equivalent required. Knowing the desperation of the Frenchmen, they took care, while thus tantalizing their hopes and hunger, to keep out of reach of shot of arquebuse. In this way, they took the very shirts from the backs of the starving soldiers. When Laudonniere remonstrated against their prices, their answer was a bitter mockery.

“Very good,” said the savages, “if thou make such great account of thy merchandise, let it stay thy hunger. Do thou eat of it and we will eat of our fish.” This reply would be cheered with their open-throated laughter. The old ally of the French, the Paracoussi Utina, mocked them in like manner. His subjects followed his example; and, in the end, goaded to madness, Laudonniere resolved on adopting the course which his people had counselled; that, by which, taking one of their kings prisoner, food could be extorted for his ransom. The ingratitude of Utina, for past services, a recent attempt which he had made to employ the French soldiers in his own conquests, while professing to lead them only where they should find provisions, and the supposed extent of his resources, pointed him out to all parties as the proper person upon whom to try the experiment, on a small scale, which Cortez and Pizzarro had used, on a large one, in the conquest of Peru and Mexico.

[XIX.]

Of the captivity of the Great Paracoussi—Olata Ouvae Utina, and the war which followed between his people and the French.