As we entered the postern gate we saw De Gourgues standing,—menacing, sinister and pitiless,—before the ranks of trembling, haggard wretches who had been spared from the massacre. They were not many; and the slenderness of their number was a dire augury of the punishment which was to be theirs. They did not know what was to come. They scanned the merciless man who stood before them, seeking to find in the lines of his face one trace of sorrow or pity. But the eyes where pity might have been were set and fixed; hard as the lines of the nose and mouth. The brows had lost their melancholy and were drawn into a tangle and snarl of wrinkles, which took away every vestige of the man I knew and loved. He returned their look with a glance from which they cowered as though he had struck them; a glance that meant but one thing, and that was—the end. A few of them stood upright and fearless; others fell down upon their knees, whimpering. The end—Holy Virgin! What end? What death? When the Avenger spoke, his voice was dry and hard as flint.
“Did you think,” he said, “that so vile a treachery, so detestable a cruelty, against a King so potent and a nation so fearless, would go unpunished? Hell knows no viler traitor than your master, Menendez de Avilés, of whom you are but the spawn! No! I am only one of the humblest of the subjects of my King, but I have charged myself with avenging the deeds of this Menendez—and yours—against my hapless countrymen. There is no name base enough to brand your actions, no punishment sharp enough to requite them. But though you cannot suffer as you deserve, you shall suffer all that an enemy can honorably inflict, that your example may teach others to observe the peace and alliance between our Kings which you have so perfidiously violated.”
Then he waved his hand, and the wretches were marched out through the gate down to the river. Some of them cried aloud that they would not go. Others clasped the knees of the French arquebusiers, sobbing out like women in their degradation that they had helped to hang the Frenchmen of Fort Caroline, that they had confessed and hoped for mercy. These were rudely dragged to their feet and prodded with pikes until they followed the others, trembling in an agony of fear. When they had come to a place near the river, the Indians pointed out to De Gourgues the trees upon which the Frenchmen of Fort Caroline had hung. De Brésac and I knew them well. And upon these same trees without other speech or ceremony, the Spaniards were hanged.
After it was over, De Gourgues caused tablets of pine to be nailed over their heads where all men might read. Upon these tablets were inscriptions burned with a hot iron which read:—
“Not as to Spaniards,
But as to Traitors, Robbers and
Murderers.”
His vengeance was complete.
That night, when it was dark, De Brésac, Job Goddard and another, buried De Baçan deep in a sand-dune. Indian messengers were sent to the river of Tacatacourou to bring the Vengeance and others’ vessels into the River of May. But at dawn the following morning we saw them passing the forts at the river’s mouth and we knew that the anxiety of François Bourdelais had got the better of him. When those on the vessels saw the standards of France waving upon the battlements of the lower forts, their cannon boomed forth a joyous salute which was answered there and at San Mateo. Before noon they anchored near the Fort and I was carried aboard to Mademoiselle.
I could not suffer her to go ashore while traces of the slaughter were in such ghastly evidence. For there were sights to cloud and torment throughout all recollection a mind innocent of the indecencies of life. Already the vultures were wheeling high over the forest and I prayed that the business which still kept the Avenger would soon be concluded. We were sick of the place, and Mademoiselle and I had no desire to go upon the shore.
In the afternoon Maheera came aboard. Unable to stay at the Tacatacourou River while these great events were going forward, she had followed us and lain in concealment since the attack. To Mademoiselle she brought a message from Olotoraca, who was at the Indian encampment—not dead, but very sorely wounded from the thrust De Baçan had given him—and who wished Mademoiselle to go to him.