In a while there came two of these fiends reeking and drunk with slaughter; unbinding my feet, they bade me follow on behind their fellows who had gone before toward San Augustin, carrying their bloody trophies. The lives of four others beside mine own had been spared; and we prisoners,—De Brésac, a fifer, a drummer and a trumpeter were tied together for our better security, and in single line were marched up the beach. Each looked at the heels of the man in front, fearing to raise his eyes upon some new barbarity. Toward noon there was a rest and these butchers fed us upon biscuit and preserved fruits, giving each a draught of eau de vie. It seemed from this that they meant for the present to save us further physical suffering. The drink set new life coursing through my veins, and by afternoon I had steeled my memory in some sort against the things which had been, and had prepared my spirit against the new and, like enough, more desperate trials of mind and body which must surely come.
For what else could De Baçan be saving me? Was it for a torture worse than the death of Ribault, La Notte and those other martyrs, my companions? What hideous devilry could he be devising? I thought of his sinister threat upon the San Cristobal, and I felt sure he was preparing to work his worst upon me. But even as I was,—helpless, in his power,—I had no fear of him; only hatred, which had driven out all other personal relation. There was no instrument that the Inquisition had devised which should provoke one groan, and no torture that he could invent which should wring one tribute to his devilish ingenuity. So long as Mademoiselle were not there to make my pulses tremble, he should have no sign. Nay, more,—I would escape. Mademoiselle alive, let them give me so much as half a hair’s breadth of license and I vowed that there were not enough Spaniards in all the Flowery Land to hold me a prisoner. And—why I knew not,—I was as sure she was alive as though she were there by my side. I would escape back to Europe to let the King of France and our own Queen Bess of England know what manner of fiends the King of Spain had let loose, to make a living hell of this great and good land across the water.
It was right that I should escape. There were none who were with Ribault when he was betrayed save me, and none who could give the lie to the tales this Spaniard Menendez would tell to his people and to the people of France. I determined that if God willed, I would be the instrument of justice upon them. And if the iron helm of fate were entrusted to my hands, I would seize it with no light grasp. For the moment, even the thought of Mademoiselle and all she had suffered and might still suffer vanished from my mind, and I wished nothing but vengeance for the murder of my comrades. I knew not until now how dear they had been to me. She would understand. She would know. They were of her religion; but like me, she had not the humility to bow meekly under such a blow. If I could first escape out of their intimate clutches I knew that I could get to France. There had been many ships on the Florida coast of late—English ships too—and Admiral Hawkins, or perhaps even Captain Hooper, might now be in those waters.
And so my mind planned and planned, as I trudged along toward San Augustin between the serried ranks of my captors. There was no chance of escape, for arquebusiers to the number of ten brought up the rear, and De Baçan had given them orders to shoot us in the back did we give the slightest sign or movement of a nature suspicious. In this fashion we walked until dark, De Baçan saying no word nor even coming near. Then we turned sharply through the dunes in-shore to the left, and came abruptly to the bay within the sand-spit and upon four large barges which had been brought to convey us across this arm of the sea.
It was not until then that I had a chance for words with Diego de Baçan. I determined that could I speak with him I would leave no effort of diplomacy unmade to secure his attention and approval. For this was no place for pride, and therein lay the way to safety. It so happened that in the boat his thwart was next to mine. With some display of good humor he addressed me:—
“Gratitude may not be one of your virtues, Sir Pirato.”
“I find little cause for gratitude, Don de Baçan,” said I.
“Not even that you have your life as a gift from the Adelantado? You are truly hard to please. Here have I saved you from a long wait in the bowels of hell, and you pay me with what?—not even a smile of thanks or welcome.”
“Then it is to you I owe my life?”