CHAPTER 2
 
1550-1558.  
VILLEGAGNON.  

In the middle of the sixteenth century, Spain was the incubus of Europe.  Gloomy and portentous, she chilled the world with her baneful shadow.  Her old feudal liberties were gone, absorbed in the despotism of Madrid.  A tyranny of monks and inquisitors, with their swarms of spies and informers, their racks, their dungeons, and their fagots, crushed all freedom of thought or speech; and, while the Dominican held his reign of terror and force, the deeper Jesuit guided the mind from infancy into those narrow depths of bigotry from which it was never to escape.  Commercial despotism was joined to political and religious despotism.  The hands of the government were on every branch of industry.  Perverse regulations, uncertain and ruinous taxes, monopolies, encouragements, prohibitions, restrictions, cramped the national energy.  Mistress of the Indies, Spain swarmed with beggars.  Yet, verging to decay, she had an ominous and appalling strength.  Her condition was that of an athletic man penetrated with disease, which had not yet unstrung the thews and sinews formed in his days of vigor.  Philip the Second could command the service of warriors and statesmen developed in the years that were past.  The gathered energies of ruined feudalism were wielded by a single hand.  The mysterious King, in his den in the Escorial, dreary and silent, and bent like a scribe over his papers, was the type and the champion of arbitrary power.  More than the Pope himself, he was the head of Catholicity.  In doctrine and in deed, the inexorable bigotry of Madrid was ever in advance of Rome.  

Not so with France.  She was full of life,—a discordant and struggling vitality.  Her monks and priests, unlike those of Spain, were rarely either fanatics or bigots; yet not the less did they ply the rack and the fagot, and howl for heretic blood.  Their all was at stake: their vast power, their bloated wealth, were wrapped up in the ancient faith.  Men were burned, and women buried alive.  All was in vain.  To the utmost bounds of France, the leaven of the Reform was working.  The Huguenots, fugitives from torture and death, found an asylum at Geneva, their city of refuge, gathering around Calvin, their great high-priest.  Thence intrepid colporteurs, their lives in their hands, bore the Bible and the psalm-book to city, hamlet, and castle, to feed the rising flame.  The scattered churches, pressed by a common danger, began to organize.  An ecclesiastical republic spread its ramifications through France, and grew underground to a vigorous life,—pacific at the outset, for the great body of its members were the quiet bourgeoisie, by habit, as by faith, averse to violence.  Yet a potent fraction of the warlike noblesse were also of the new faith; and above them all, preeminent in character as in station, stood Gaspar de Coligny, Admiral of France.  

The old palace of the Louvre, reared by the "Roi Chevalier" on the site of those dreary feudal towers which of old had guarded the banks of the Seine, held within its sculptured masonry the worthless brood of Valois.  Corruption and intrigue ran riot at the court.  Factious nobles, bishops, and cardinals, with no God but pleasure and ambition, contended around the throne or the sick-bed of the futile King.  Catherine de Medicis, with her stately form, her mean spirit, her bad heart, and her fathomless depths of duplicity, strove by every subtle art to hold the balance of power among them.  The bold, pitiless, insatiable Guise, and his brother the Cardinal of Lorraine, the incarnation of falsehood, rested their ambition on the Catholic party.  Their army was a legion of priests, and the black swarms of countless monasteries, who by the distribution of alms held in pay the rabble of cities and starving peasants on the lands of impoverished nobles.  Montmorency, Conde, and Navarre leaned towards the Reform,—doubtful and inconstant chiefs, whose faith weighed light against their interests.  Yet, amid vacillation, selfishness, weakness, treachery, one great man was like a tower of trust, and this was Gaspar de Coligny.  

Firm in his convictions, steeled by perils and endurance, calm, sagacious, resolute, grave even to severity, a valiant and redoubted soldier, Coligny looked abroad on the gathering storm and read its danger in advance.  He saw a strange depravity of manners; bribery and violence overriding justice; discontented nobles, and peasants ground down with taxes.  In the midst of this rottenness, the Calvinistic churches, patient and stern, were fast gathering to themselves the better life of the nation.  Among and around them tossed the surges of clerical hate.  Luxurious priests and libertine monks saw their disorders rebuked by the grave virtues of the Protestant zealots.  Their broad lands, their rich endowments, their vessels of silver and of gold, their dominion over souls,—in itself a revenue,—were all imperiled by the growing heresy.  Nor was the Reform less exacting, less intolerant, or, when its hour came, less aggressive than the ancient faith.  The storm was thickening, and it must burst soon.  

When the Emperor Charles the Fifth beleaguered Algiers, his camps were deluged by a blinding tempest, and at its height the infidels made a furious sally.  A hundred Knights of Malta, on foot, wearing over their armor surcoats of crimson blazoned with the white cross, bore the brunt of the assault.  Conspicuous among them was Nicolas Durand de Villegagnon.  A Moorish cavalier, rushing upon him, pierced his arm with a lance, and wheeled to repeat the blow; but the knight leaped on the infidel, stabbed him with his dagger, flung him from his horse, and mounted in his place.  Again, a Moslem host landed in Malta and beset the Cite Notable.  The garrison was weak, disheartened, and without a leader.  Villegagnon with six followers, all friends of his own, passed under cover of night through the infidel leaguer, climbed the walls by ropes lowered from above, took command, repaired the shattered towers, aiding with his own hands in the work, and animated the garrison to a resistance so stubborn that the besiegers lost heart and betook themselves to their galleys.  No less was he an able and accomplished mariner, prominent among that chivalry of the sea who held the perilous verge of Christendom against the Mussuhuan.  He claimed other laurels than those of the sword.  He was a scholar, a linguist, a controversialist, potent with the tongue and with the pen, commanding in presence, eloquent and persuasive in discourse.  Yet this Crichton of France had proved himself an associate nowise desirable.  His sleepless intellect was matched with a spirit as restless, vain, unstable, and ambitious, as it was enterprising and bold.  Addicted to dissent, and enamoured of polemics, he entered those forbidden fields of inquiry and controversy to which the Reform invited him.  Undaunted by his monastic vows, he battled for heresy with tongue and pen, and in the ear of Protestants professed himself a Protestant.  As a Commander of his Order, he quarreled with the Grand Master, a domineering Spaniard; and, as Vice-Admiral of Brittany, he was deep in a feud with the Governor of Brest.  Disgusted at home, his fancy crossed the seas.  He aspired to build for France and himself an empire amid the tropical splendors of Brazil.  Few could match him in the gift of persuasion; and the intrepid seamen whose skill and valor had run the gantlet of the English fleet, and borne Mary Stuart of Scotland in safety to her espousals with the Dauphin, might well be intrusted with a charge of moment so far inferior.  Henry the Second was still on the throne.  The lance of Montgomery had not yet rid France of that infliction.  To win a share in the rich domain of the New World, of which Portuguese and Spanish arrogance claimed the monopoly, was the end held by Villegagnon before the eyes of the King.  Of the Huguenots, he said not a word.  For Coligny he had another language.  He spoke of an asylum for persecuted religion, a Geneva in the wilderness, far from priests and monks and Francis of Guise.  The Admiral gave him a ready ear; if, indeed, he himself had not first conceived the plan.  Yet to the King, an active burner of Huguenots, Coligny too urged it as an enterprise, not for the Faith, but for France.  In secret, Geneva was made privy to it, and Calvin himself embraced it with zeal.  The enterprise, in fact, had a double character, political as well as religious.  It was the reply of France, the most emphatic she had yet made, to the Papal bull which gave all the western hemisphere to Portugal and Spain; and, as if to point her answer, she sent, not Frenchmen only, but Protestant Frenchmen, to plant the fleur-de-lis on the shores of the New World.  

Two vessels were made ready, in the name of the King.  The body of the emigration was Huguenot, mingled with young nobles, restless, idle, and poor, with reckless artisans, and piratical sailors from the Norman and Breton seaports.  They put to sea from Havre on the twelfth of July, 1555, and early in November saw the shores of Brazil.  Entering the harbor of Rio Janeiro, then called Ganabara, Villegagnon landed men and stores on an island, built huts, and threw up earthworks.  In anticipation of future triumphs, the whole continent, by a strange perversion of language, was called Antarctic France, while the fort received the name of Coligny.  

Villegagnon signalized his new-born Protestantism by an intolerable solicitude for the manners and morals of his followers.  The whip and the pillory requited the least offence.  The wild and discordant crew, starved and flogged for a season into submission, conspired at length to rid themselves of him; but while they debated whether to poison him, blow him up, or murder him and his officers in their sleep, three Scotch soldiers, probably Calvinists, revealed the plot, and the vigorous hand of the commandant crushed it in the bud.  

But how was the colony to subsist? Their island was too small for culture, while the mainland was infested with hostile tribes, and threatened by the Portuguese, who regarded the French occupancy as a violation of their domain.  

Meanwhile, in France, Huguenot influence, aided by ardent letters sent home by Villegagnon in the returning ships, was urging on the work.  Nor were the Catholic chiefs averse to an enterprise which, by colonizing heresy, might tend to relieve France of its presence.  Another embarkation was prepared, in the name of Henry the Second, under Bois-Lecomte, a nephew of Villegagnon.  Most of the emigrants were Huguenots.  Geneva sent a large deputation, and among them several ministers, full of zeal for their land of promise and their new church in the wilderness.  There were five young women, also, with a matron to watch over them.  Soldiers, emigrants, and sailors, two hundred and ninety in all, were embarked in three vessels; and, to the sound of cannon, drums, fifes, and trumpets, they unfurled their sails at Honfleur.  They were no sooner on the high seas than the piratical character of the Norman sailors, in no way exceptional at that day, began to declare itself.  They hailed every vessel weaker than themselves, pretended to be short of provisions, and demanded leave to buy them; then, boarding the stranger, plundered her from stem to stern.  After a passage of four months, on the ninth of March, 1557, they entered the port of Ganabara, and saw the fleur-de-lis floating above the walls of Fort Coligny.  Amid salutes of cannon, the boats, crowded with sea-worn emigrants, moved towards the landing.  It was an edifying scene when Villegagnon, in the picturesque attire which marked the warlike nobles of the period, came down to the shore to greet the sombre ministers of Calvin.  With hands uplifted and eyes raised to heaven, he bade them welcome to the new asylum of the faithful; then launched into a long harangue full of zeal and unction.  His discourse finished, he led the way to the dining-hall.  If the redundancy of spiritual aliment had surpassed their expectations, the ministers were little prepared for the meagre provision which awaited their temporal cravings; for, with appetites whetted by the sea, they found themselves seated at a board whereof, as one of them complains the choicest dish was a dried fish, and the only beverage rain-water.  They found their consolation in the inward graces of the commandant, whom they likened to the Apostle Paul.  

For a time all was ardor and hope.  Men of birth and station, and the ministers themselves, labored with pick and shovel to finish the fort.  Every day exhortations, sermons, prayers, followed in close succession, and Villegagnon was always present, kneeling on a velvet cushion brought after him by a page.  Soon, however, he fell into sharp controversy with the ministers upon points of faith.  Among the emigrants was a student of the Sorbonne, one Cointac, between whom and the ministers arose a fierce and unintermitted war of words.  Is it lawful to mix water with the wine of the Eucharist? May the sacramental bread be made of meal of Indian corn? These and similar points of dispute filled the fort with wranglings, begetting cliques, factions, and feuds without number.  Villegagnon took part with the student, and between them they devised a new doctrine, abhorrent alike to Geneva and to Rome.  The advent of this nondescript heresy was the signal of redoubled strife.  The dogmatic stiffness of the Geneva ministers chafed Villegagnon to fury.  He felt himself, too, in a false position.  On one side he depended on the Protestant, Coligny; on the other, he feared the Court.  There were Catholics in the colony who might report him as an open heretic.  On this point his doubts were set at rest; for a ship from France brought him a letter from the Cardinal of Lorraine, couched, it is said, in terms which restored him forthwith to the bosom of the Church.  Villegagnon now affirmed that he had been deceived in Calvin, and pronounced him a "frightful heretic." He became despotic beyond measure, and would bear no opposition.  The ministers, reduced nearly to starvation, found themselves under a tyranny worse than that from which they had fled.  

At length he drove them from the fort, and forced them to bivouac on the mainland, at the risk of being butchered by Indians, until a vessel loading with Brazil-wood in the harbor should be ready to carry them back to France.  Having rid himself of the ministers, he caused three of the more zealous Calvinists to be seized, dragged to the edge of a rock, and thrown into the sea.  A fourth, equally obnoxious, but who, being a tailor, could ill be spared, was permitted to live on condition of recantation.  Then, mustering the colonists, he warned them to shun the heresies of Luther and Calvin; threatened that all who openly professed those detestable doctrines should share the fate of their three comrades; and, his harangue over, feasted the whole assembly, in token, says the narrator, of joy and triumph.  

Meanwhile, in their crazy vessel, the banished ministers drifted slowly on their way.  Storms fell upon them, their provisions failed, their water-casks were empty, and, tossing in the wilderness of waves, or rocking on the long swells of subsiding gales, they sank almost to despair.  In their famine they chewed the Brazil-wood with which the vessel was laden, devoured every scrap of leather, singed and ate the horn of lanterns, hunted rats through the hold, and sold them to each other at enormous prices.  At length, stretched on the deck, sick, listless, attenuated, and scarcely able to move a limb, they descried across the waste of sea the faint, cloud-like line that marked the coast of Brittany.  Their perils were not past; for, if we may believe one of them, Jean de Lery, they bore a sealed letter from Villegagnon to the magistrates of the first French port at which they might arrive.  It denounced them as heretics, worthy to be burned.  Happily, the magistrates leaned to the Reform, and the malice of the commandant failed of its victims.  

Villegagnon himself soon sailed for France, leaving the wretched colony to its fate.  He presently entered the lists against Calvin, and engaged him in a hot controversial war, in which, according to some of his contemporaries, the knight often worsted the theologian at his own weapons.  Before the year 1558 was closed, Ganabara fell a prey to the Portuguese.  They set upon it in force, battered down the fort, and slew the feeble garrison, or drove them to a miserable refuge among the Indians.  Spain and Portugal made good their claim to the vast domain, the mighty vegetation, and undeveloped riches of "Antarctic France."