Laudonniere shut his ears, and with his companion plunged deeper into the forests. Here he found other fugitives like himself, and others subsequently joined him; some were wounded even unto death, others slightly; all were terror-stricken, shuddering with horror, incapable from wo and agony. What had they beheld, what endured, and what was the prospect before them but of massacre? A hasty council was convened among the party, and the advice of Laudonniere—he could command no longer—was, that they should bury themselves among the reeds and within the marshes which lay along the river, out of sight, until they could make their small vessels, by which the mouth of the river was still guarded, aware of their situation. But this council was agreeable to a part only, of that bewildered company. Another portion preferred to push for one of the Indian villages, at some little distance in the forests, where, hitherto, they had found a friendly reception. They persevered in this purpose, leaving Laudonniere and a few others in the marshes. Hither, then, these hapless fugitives sped, till they could go no farther; and until their commandant himself, still unrecovered from the chill and fever which had seized him at the first coming on of autumn, declared his inability to go deeper into the thicket, though it promised him the safety which he sought. He was already up to his neck in water, and such was his weakness, that he was about to yield to his fate. But for the faithful and unwearied support of one of his soldiers, Jean du Chemin, who held him above the water when he would have sunk, and who stuck by him all the rest of that day, and through the long and dreary night which followed, he must have perished. Meanwhile, two of his soldiers swam off in the direction of the vessels. Fortunately for those swimmers, those in the vessels had been already apprized of the taking of the fort by Jean de Hais, the master carpenter, who had made his escape the first, by dropping down the river in a shallop. The boats of the vessels were immediately pushed up the stream, and succeeded in picking up the swimmers, and, finally, when Laudonniere and his faithful companions were both about to sink, in extricating them from their marshy place of refuge. Eighteen or twenty of the fugitives (among whom was the celebrated painter, Jaques le Moyne de Morgues, to whom we owe mostly the illustrations of Floridian scenery, costume, and lineaments preserved in De Bry and other collections) were rescued in this manner, and conveyed on board the ships. These, with Laudonniere, subsequently made their way, after many disasters, perils of the sea and land, a detention in England, where they were again indebted to the humanity of the English for succor and sympathy. An artful attempt was made by Melendez to obtain possession of these vessels, but he was baffled. They sailed from the river of May on the 25th September, 1565, thus abandoning forever the design of planting themselves and their religion permanently in Florida. Let us now look to the farther proceedings of the conquerors in possession of their prize!
[CHAPTER VII.]
VÆ VICTIS.
And now, it falls to our lot to record the most cruel passage in all this history; to relate the mournful and terrible fate which befel the wretched Huguenots taken at the capture of La Caroline, and the sanguinary deed by which the Spanish chief, through a gloomy fanaticism, stained foully the honorable fame which his skill and courage in arms might have ensured to his memory. All resistance having ceased on the part of the Huguenots of La Caroline, the standard of Castile was unrolled from its battlements, instead of the white folds and the smiling lilies of France. The name of the fortress was solemnly changed to San Matheo, the day on which they found themselves in its possession being that which was dedicated to the honor of that saint. The arms of France and of Coligny, which surmounted the gateways of the place, were erased and those of Spain were graven there instead, and the keeping of the fortress was assigned to a garrison of three hundred men, under the command of Gonzalo de Villaroël. These duties occupied but little time, and did not interfere with other performances of the Adelantado, which he thought not the less conspicuous among the duties required at his hands. His prisoners were brought before him. These were, perhaps, not so numerous, though forming a fair proportion of the number left by Ribault in the garrison. It is perhaps fortunate that no greater number had been left, since, in all probability, the same want of watch and caution by which the fortress had been lost, would have equally been shown, with any numbers, under such an easy commandant as Laudonniere, and in the particular circumstances which had taken place. Of these prisoners many were women and children. We have seen that Laudonniere succeeded in rescuing some twenty persons. Several had fled to the forests and taken shelter with the tribes of neighboring Indians. In some few instances, the red-men protected them with fidelity. But in the greater number of cases, terrified by the sudden appearance and the strength of the Spaniards, they had yielded up the fugitives at the fierce demand of the Adelantado. Others of the miserable Huguenots, warned by the Indians that they could no longer harbor, were shot down by the pursuing Spaniards, as they fled in terror through the forests. Twenty perished in this manner, offering no resistance, and long after the struggle in La Caroline had ended.
The surviving prisoners were then brought before the conqueror. They were manacled, and presented a spectacle which must have moved the sympathies of any ordinary nature. But Pedro de Melendez was not of an ordinary nature. The natural sympathies had given way to a morbid passion amounting to insanity, by which his judgment was confounded. The sight of weeping, and trembling women and children; of captives naked, worn, exhausted, enfeebled by years, by disease, by cruel wounds—all pleading for his mercy—only seemed to strengthen
him in the most cruel resolution. “The groans of the heretic, are music in the ears of heaven!” Upon this maxim he designed an appropriate commentary.
“Separate these women from the other prisoners.”
It was done.
“Now detach from these last, all children under fifteen years.”
His command was obeyed. The women and children thus set apart were consigned to slavery. Of their farther fate the historian knows nothing. The young and tender were probably persuaded to the Roman Catholic altars, and thus finally achieved their deliverance. The more stubborn, we may reasonably assume, perished in their bonds, passing from one condition of degradation to another. Of the rest the history is terribly definite. Fixing his cold, dark eye upon the male captives upon whose fate he had yet said nothing, he demanded—