“Yes, my Captain. But they are the false-hearted, dirt-eaters of Outina. Against these, Satouriona wages a war more fierce even than against the Spanish.”
De Gourgues stroked his mustache, saying,
“When we reach the coast, I will call for you, Dariol. For the present, that is all.”
The man saluted and went below.
“Par la mort, his words ring true as steel,” muttered De Gourgues. “If these Caribs are valiant, as he says, we will sweep this scum of pestilence from off the western land.”
The next day at noon we sighted the coast of the Terra Florida, and at the thought of all Diane had suffered there my heart welled full of emotion. Now as we came nearer and nearer our mission’s ending, the cloud fell down upon my spirit again, and the same struggle between hope and fear—of pain which is the price of joy—tossed me to and fro—held and freed me, like the embrace of some temptation. The sun was yet above the foreyard when we came in sight of the River of May, but De Gourgues, wishing to reconnoiter, stood on until sunset, when we were within less than three leagues from the coast. Suddenly we saw several puffs of smoke spurt from the beach as the Spaniards, suspecting no enemy, fired their cannon in salute. Not until then did we know of the new defenses which the enemy were putting upon the shore at either side of the river’s mouth. Our three vessels, to better keep up the guise of friendship, boomed forth a salute in reply, after which we put out to sea again and soon lost the shore line in the rapidly falling dusk.
The river that the Indians of Satouriona call Tacatacourou, after the name of their second greatest warrior, enters the ocean by two mouths at a distance of not more than fifteen leagues to the northward of the River of May. Within the bar there is a safe harbor, and it was for this haven that Dariol and the Chevalier de Brésac were directing our course. But not wishing to pass over the bar until day, De Gourgues held out to sea, not coming in sight of land again until well into the forenoon. Then, the river entrance being easily discerned, he put his helm over and entered the channel, coming safely to anchor at an early hour of the afternoon.
Now that we had come to our journey’s ending there was a great stir and excitement aboard the little vessels of the fleet. The arm chests and ammunition lockers were opened and all hands put merrily to work setting the arquebuses to rights, fixing new match cords, seeing to the barrels and rests that no disaster might befall them by reason of any negligence of their own. The grinding stones were brought out into the sunshine of the open deck and the grit of the polishing steel and the rattle of the pike heads made music brave and martial to the ear. The seaman sang about their work as the lighter yards came clattering down upon the deck, and the culverins, unharnessed from their sea-apparel, shone anew in the brightness of the summer sun. The shore upon both sides was plain to the view at a distance of half a league, and once or twice we saw the dusky figures of Indians upon the beach. Bourdelais and one or two of the gallants, unaware of the plans of De Gourgues, were for going ashore at once and giving battle; but he was in no haste,—when he was ready for all emergencies he would go, and not before.
Night fell again; and with the coming of dawn a great surprise awaited us, for in the gathering light, we saw that the beach was alive with savages. They made no sound but stood in groups as far as the pines, where they were lost in the misty shadows of the forest behind them. Here and there a figure was moving from one group to another, and we knew that their runners had gone out to the nearer villages and that they had assembled to combat our landing. De Gourgues frowned as he came upon deck.