CHAPTER 6

1564, 1565.
FAMINE.  WAR.  SUCCOR.  

While the mutiny was brewing, one La Roche Ferriere had been sent out as an agent or emissary among the more distant tribes.  Sagacious, bold, and restless, he pushed his way from town to town, and pretended to have reached the mysterious mountains of Appalache.  He sent to the fort mantles woven with feathers, quivers covered with choice furs, arrows tipped with gold, wedges of a green stone like beryl or emerald, and other trophies of his wanderings.  A gentleman named Grotaut took up the quest, and penetrated to the dominions of Hostaqua, who, it was pretended, could muster three or four thousand warriors, and who promised, with the aid of a hundred arquebusiers, to conquer all the kings of the adjacent mountains, and subject them and their gold mines to the rule of the French.  A humbler adventurer was Pierre Gambie, a robust and daring youth, who had been brought up in the household of Coligny, and was now a soldier under Laudonniere.  The latter gave him leave to trade with the Indians,—a privilege which he used so well that he grew rich with his traffic, became prime favorite with the chief of the island of Edelano, married his daughter, and, in his absence, reigned in his stead.  But, as his sway verged towards despotism, his subjects took offence, and split his head with a hatchet.  

During the winter, Indians from the neighborhood of Cape Canaveral brought to the fort two Spaniards, wrecked fifteen years before on the southwestern extremity of the peninsula.  They were clothed like the Indians,—in other words, were not clothed at all,—and their uncut hair streamed loose down their backs.  They brought strange tales of those among whom they had dwelt.  They told of the King of Cabs, on whose domains they had been wrecked, a chief mighty in stature and in power.  In one of his villages was a pit, six feet deep and as wide as a hogshead, filled with treasure gathered from Spanish wrecks on adjacent reefs and keys.  The monarch was a priest too, and a magician, with power over the elements.  Each year he withdrew from the public gaze to hold converse in secret with supernal or infernal powers; and each year he sacrificed to his gods one of the Spaniards whom the fortune of the sea had cast upon his shores.  The name of the tribe is preserved in that of the river Caboosa.  In close league with him was the mighty Oathcaqua, dwelling near Cape Canaveral, who gave his daughter, a maiden of wondrous beauty, in marriage to his great ally.  But as the bride with her bridesmaids was journeying towards Calos, escorted by a chosen band, they were assailed by a wild and warlike race, inhabitants of an island called Sarrope, in the midst of a lake, who put the warriors to flight, bore the maidens captive to their watery fastness, espoused them all, and, we are assured, "loved them above all measure." 

Outina, taught by Arlac the efficacy of the French fire-arms, begged for ten arquebusiers to aid him on a new raid among the villages of Potanou,—again alluring his greedy allies by the assurance, that, thus reinforced, he would conquer for them a free access to the phantom gold mines of Appalache.  Ottigny set forth on this fool's errand with thrice the force demanded.  Three hundred Thirnagoas and thirty Frenchmen took up their march through the pine barrens.  Outina's conjurer was of the number, and had wellnigh ruined the enterprise.  Kneeling on Ottigny's shield, that he might not touch the earth, with hideous grimaces, howlings, and contortions, he wrought himself into a prophetic frenzy, and proclaimed to the astounded warriors that to advance farther would be destruction.  Outina was for instant retreat, but Ottigny's sarcasms shamed him into a show of courage.  Again they moved forward, and soon encountered Potanou with all his host.  The arquebuse did its work,—panic, slaughter, and a plentiful harvest of scalps.  But no persuasion could induce Outina to follow up his victory.  He went home to dance round his trophies, and the French returned disgusted to Fort Caroline.  

And now, in ample measure, the French began to reap the harvest of their folly.  Conquest, gold, and military occupation had alone been their aims.  Not a rod of ground had been stirred with the spade.  Their stores were consumed, and the expected supplies had not come.  The Indians, too, were hostile.  Satouriona hated them as allies of his enemies; and his tribesmen, robbed and maltreated by the lawless soldiers, exulted in their miseries.  Yet in these, their dark and subtle neighbors, was their only hope.  

May-day came, the third anniversary of the day when Ribaut and his companions, full of delighted anticipation, had first explored the flowery borders of the Saint  John's.  The contrast was deplorable; for within the precinct of Fort Caroline a homesick, squalid band, dejected and worn, dragged their shrunken limbs about the sun-scorched area, or lay stretched in listless wretchedness under the shade of the barracks.  Some were digging roots in the forest, or gathering a kind of sorrel upon the meadows.  If they had had any skill in hunting and fishing, the river and the woods would have supplied their needs; but in this point, as in others, they were lamentably unfit for the work they had taken in hand.  "Our miserie," says Laudonniere, "was so great that one was found that gathered up all the fish-bones that he could finde, which he dried and beate into powder to make bread thereof.  The effects of this hideous famine appeared incontinently among us, for our bones eftsoones beganne to cleave so neere unto the skinne, that the most part of the souldiers had their skinnes pierced thorow with them in many partes of their bodies." Yet, giddy with weakness, they dragged themselves in turn to the top of Saint  John's Bluff, straining their eyes across the sea to descry the anxiously expected sail.  

Had Coligny left them to perish? Or had some new tempest of calamity, let loose upon France, drowned the memory of their exile? In vain the watchman on the hill surveyed the solitude of waters.  A deep dejection fell upon them,—a dejection that would have sunk to despair could their eyes have pierced the future.  

The Indians had left the neighborhood, but from time to time brought in meagre supplies of fish, which they sold to the famished soldiers at exorbitant prices.  Lest they should pay the penalty of their extortion, they would not enter the fort, but lay in their canoes in the river, beyond gunshot, waiting for their customers to come out to them.  "Oftentimes," says Laudonniere, "our poor soldiers were constrained to give away the very shirts from their backs to get one fish.  If at any time they shewed unto the savages the excessive price which they tooke, these villaines would answere them roughly and churlishly: If thou make so great account of thy marchandise, eat it, and we will eat our fish: then fell they out a laughing, and mocked us with open throat." 

The spring wore away, and no relief appeared.  One thought now engrossed the colonists, that of return to France.  Vasseur's ship, the "Breton," still remained in the river, and they had also the Spanish brigantine brought by the mutineers.  But these vessels were insufficient, and they prepared to build a new one.  The energy of reviving hope lent new life to their exhausted frames.  Some gathered pitch in the pine forests; some made charcoal; some cut and sawed timber.  The maize began to ripen, and this brought some relief; but the Indians, exasperated and greedy, sold it with reluctance, and murdered two half-famished Frenchmen who gathered a handful in the fields.  

The colonists applied to Outina, who owed them two victories.  The result was a churlish message and a niggardly supply of corn, coupled with an invitation to aid him against an insurgent chief, one Astina, the plunder of whose villages would yield an ample supply.  The offer was accepted.  Ottigny and Vasseur set out, but were grossly deceived, led against a different enemy, and sent back empty-handed and half-starved.  

They returned to the fort, in the words of Laudonniere, "angry and pricked deepely to the quicke for being so mocked," and, joined by all their comrades, fiercely demanded to be led against Outina, to seize him, punish his insolence, and extort from his fears the supplies which could not be looked for from his gratitude.  The commandant was forced to comply.  Those who could bear the weight of their armor put it on, embarked, to the number of fifty, in two barges, and sailed up the river under Laudonniere himself.  Having reached Outina's landing, they marched inland, entered his village, surrounded his mud-plastered palace, seized him amid the yells and howlings of his subjects, and led him prisoner to their boats.  Here, anchored in mid-stream, they demanded a supply of corn and beans as the price of his ransom.  

The alarm spread.  Excited warriors, bedaubed with red, came thronging from all his villages.  The forest along the shore was full of them; and the wife of the chief, followed by all the women of the place, uttered moans and outcries from the strand.  Yet no ransom was offered, since, reasoning from their own instincts, they never doubted that, after the price was paid, the captive would be put to death.  

Laudonniere waited two days, and then descended the river with his prisoner.  In a rude chamber of Fort Caroline the sentinel stood his guard, pike in hand, while before him crouched the captive chief, mute, impassive, and brooding on his woes.  His old enemy, Satouriona, keen as a hound on the scent of prey, tried, by great offers, to bribe Laudonniere to give Outina into his hands; but the French captain refused, treated his prisoner kindly, and assured him of immediate freedom on payment of the ransom.  

Meanwhile his captivity was bringing grievous affliction on his tribesmen; for, despairing of his return, they mustered for the election of a new chief.  Party strife ran high.  Some were for a boy, his son, and some for an ambitious kinsman.  Outina chafed in his prison on learning these dissentions; and, eager to convince his over-hasty subjects that their chief still lived, he was so profuse of promises that he was again embarked and carried up the river.  

At no great distance from Lake George, a small affluent of the Saint  John's gave access by water to a point within six French leagues of Outina's principal town.  The two barges, crowded with soldiers, and bearing also the captive Outina, rowed up this little stream.  Indians awaited them at the landing, with gifts of bread, beans, and fish, and piteous prayers for their chief, upon whose liberation they promised an ample supply of corn.  As they were deaf to all other terms, Laudonniere yielded, released his prisoner, and received in his place two hostages, who were fast bound in the boats.  Ottigny and Arlac, with a strong detachment of arquebusiers, went to receive the promised supplies, for which, from the first, full payment in merchandise had been offered.  On their arrival at the village, they filed into the great central lodge, within whose dusky precincts were gathered the magnates of the tribe.  Council-chamber, forum, banquet-hall, and dancing-hall all in one, the spacious structure could hold half the population.  Here the French made their abode.  With armor buckled, and arquebuse matches lighted, they watched with anxious eyes the strange, dim scene, half revealed by the daylight that streamed down through the hole at the apex of the roof.  Tall, dark forms stalked to and fro, with quivers at their backs, and bows and arrows in their hands, while groups, crouched in the shadow beyond, eyed the hated guests with inscrutable visages, and malignant, sidelong eyes.  Corn came in slowly, but warriors mustered fast.  The village without was full of them.  The French officers grew anxious, and urged the chiefs to greater alacrity in collecting the promised ransom.  The answer boded no good: "Our women are afraid when they see the matches of your guns burning.  Put them out, and they will bring the corn faster." 

Outina was nowhere to be seen.  At length they learned that he was in one of the small huts adjacent.  Several of the officers went to him, complaining of the slow payment of his ransom.  The kindness of his captors at Fort Caroline seemed to have won his heart.  He replied, that such was the rage of his subjects that he could no longer control them; that the French were in danger; and that he had seen arrows stuck in the ground by the side of the path, in token that war was declared.  The peril was thickening hourly, and Ottigny resolved to regain the boats while there was yet time.  

On the twenty-seventh of July, at nine in the morning, he set his men in order.  Each shouldering a sack of corn, they marched through the rows of huts that surrounded the great lodge, and out betwixt the overlapping extremities of the palisade that encircled the town.  Before them stretched a wide avenue, three or four hundred paces long, flanked by a natural growth of trees,—one of those curious monuments of native industry to which allusion has already been made.  Here Ottigny halted and formed his line of march.  Arlac, with eight matchlock men, was sent in advance, and flanking parties were thrown into the woods on either side.  Ottigny told his soldiers that, if the Indians meant to attack them, they were probably in ambush at the other end of the avenue.  He was right.  As Arlac's party reached the spot, the whole pack gave tongue at once.  The war-whoop rose, and a tempest of stone-headed arrows clattered against the breast-plates of the French, or, scorching like fire, tore through their unprotected limbs.  They stood firm, and sent back their shot so steadily that several of the assailants were laid dead, and the rest, two or three hundred in number, gave way as Ottigny came up with his men.  

They moved on for a quarter of a mile through a country, as it seems, comparatively open, when again the war-cry pealed in front, and three hundred savages bounded to the assault.  Their whoops were echoed from the rear.  It was the party whom Arlac had just repulsed, and who, leaping and showering their arrows, were rushing on again with a ferocity restrained only by their lack of courage.  There was no panic among the French.  The men threw down their bags of corn, and took to their weapons.  They blew their matches, and, under two excellent officers, stood well to their work.  The Indians, on their part, showed good discipline after their fashion, and were perfectly under the control of their chiefs.  With cries that imitated the yell of owls, the scream of cougars, and the howl of wolves, they ran up in successive bands, let fly their arrows, and instantly fell back, giving place to others.  At the sight of the leveled arquebuse, they dropped flat on the ground.  Whenever the French charged upon them, sword in hand, they fled through the woods like foxes; and whenever the march was resumed, the arrows were showering again upon the flanks and rear of the retiring band.  As they fell, the soldiers picked them up and broke them.  Thus, beset with swarming savages, the handful of Frenchmen pushed slowly onward, fighting as they went.  

The Indians gradually drew off, and the forest was silent again.  Two of the French had been killed and twenty-two wounded, several so severely that they were supported to the boats with the utmost difficulty.  Of the corn, two bags only had been brought off.  

Famine and desperation now reigned at Fort Caroline.  The Indians had killed two of the carpenters; hence long delay in the finishing of the new ship.  They would not wait, but resolved to put to sea in the "Breton" and the brigantine.  The problem was to find food for the voyage; for now, in their extremity, they roasted and ate snakes, a delicacy in which the neighborhood abounded.  

On the third of August, Laudonniere, perturbed and oppressed, was walking on the hill, when, looking seaward, he saw a sight that sent a thrill through his exhausted frame.  A great ship was standing towards the river's mouth.  Then another came in sight, and another, and another.  He despatched a messenger with the tidings to the fort below.  The languid forms of his sick and despairing men rose and danced for joy, and voices shrill with weakness joined in wild laughter and acclamation, insomuch, he says, "that one would have thought them to bee out of their wittes." 

A doubt soon mingled with their joy.  Who were the strangers? Were they the friends so long hoped for in vain? or were they Spaniards, their dreaded enemies? They were neither.  The foremost ship was a stately one, of seven hundred tons, a great burden at that day.  She was named the "Jesus;" and with her were three smaller vessels, the "Solomon," the "Tiger," and the "Swallow." Their commander was "a right worshipful and valiant knight,"—for so the record styles him,—a pious man and a prudent, to judge him by the orders he gave his crew when, ten months before, he sailed out of Plymouth: "Serve God daily, love one another, preserve your victuals, beware of fire, and keepe good companie." Nor were the crew unworthy the graces of their chief; for the devout chronicler of the voyage ascribes their deliverance from the perils of the sea to "the Almightie God, who never suffereth his Elect to perish." 

Who then were they, this chosen band, serenely conscious of a special Providential care? They were the pioneers of that detested traffic destined to inoculate with its infection nations yet unborn, the parent of discord and death, filling half a continent with the tramp of armies and the clash of fratricidal swords.  Their chief was Sir John Hawkins, father of the English slave-trade.  

He had been to the coast of Guinea, where he bought and kidnapped a cargo of slaves.  These he had sold to the jealous Spaniards of Hispaniola, forcing them, with sword, matchlock, and culverin, to grant him free trade, and then to sign testimonials that he had borne himself as became a peaceful merchant.  Prospering greatly by this summary commerce, but distressed by the want of water, he had put into the River of May to obtain a supply.  

Among the rugged heroes of the British marine, Sir John stood in the front rank, and along with Drake, his relative, is extolled as "a man borne for the honour of the English name.  Neither did the West of England yeeld such an Indian Neptunian paire as were these two Ocean peeres, Hawkins and Drake." So writes the old chronicler, Purchas, and all England was of his thinking.  A hardy and skilful seaman, a bold fighter, a loyal friend and a stern enemy, overbearing towards equals, but kind, in his bluff way, to those beneath him, rude in speech, somewhat crafty withal and avaricious, he buffeted his way to riches and fame, and died at last full of years and honor.  As for the abject humanity stowed between the reeking decks of the ship "Jesus," they were merely in his eyes so many black cattle tethered for the market.  

Hawkins came up the river in a pinnace, and landed at Fort Caroline, accompanied, says Laudonniere, "with gentlemen honorably apparelled, yet unarmed." Between the Huguenots and the English Puritans there was a double tie of sympathy.  Both hated priests, and both hated Spaniards.  Wakening from their apathetic misery, the starveling garrison hailed him as a deliverer.  Yet Hawkins secretly rejoiced when he learned their purpose to abandon Florida; for although, not to tempt his cupidity, they hid from him the secret of their Appalachian gold mine, he coveted for his royal mistress the possession of this rich domain.  He shook his head, however, when he saw the vessels in which they proposed to embark, and offered them all a free passage to France in his own ships.  This, from obvious motives of honor and prudence, Laudonniere declined, upon which Hawkins offered to lend or sell to him one of his smaller vessels.  

Laudonniere hesitated, and hereupon arose a great clamor.  A mob of soldiers and artisans beset his chamber, threatening loudly to desert him, and take passage with Hawkins, unless the offer were accepted.  The commandant accordingly resolved to buy the vessel.  The generous slaver, whose reputed avarice nowhere appears in the transaction, desired him to set his own price; and, in place of money, took the cannon of the fort, with other articles now useless to their late owners.  He sent them, too, a gift of wine and biscuit, and supplied them with provisions for the voyage, receiving in payment Laudonniere's note; "for which," adds the latter, "untill this present I am indebted to him." With a friendly leave taking, he returned to his ships and stood out to sea, leaving golden opinions among the grateful inmates of Fort Caroline.  

Before the English top-sails had sunk beneath the horizon, the colonists bestirred themselves to depart.  In a few days their preparations were made.  They waited only for a fair wind.  It was long in coming, and meanwhile their troubled fortunes assumed a new phase.  

On the twenty eighth of August, the two captains Vasseur and Verdier came in with tidings of an approaching squadron.  Again the fort was wild with excitement.  Friends or foes, French or Spaniards, succor or death,—betwixt these were their hopes and fears divided.  On the following morning, they saw seven barges rowing up the river, bristling with weapons, and crowded with men in armor.  The sentries on the bluff challenged, and received no answer.  One of them fired at the advancing boats, and still there was no response.  Laudonniere was almost defenceless.  He had given his heavier cannon to Hawkins, and only two field-pieces were left.  They were levelled at the foremost boats, and the word to fire was about to be given, when a voice from among the strangers called out that they were French, commanded by Jean Ribaut.  

At the eleventh hour, the long looked for succors were come.  Ribaut had been commissioned to sail with seven ships for Florida.  A disorderly concourse of disbanded soldiers, mixed with artisans and their families, and young nobles weary of a two years' peace, were mustered at the port of Dieppe, and embarked, to the number of three hundred men, bearing with them all things thought necessary to a prosperous colony.  

No longer in dread of the Spaniards, the colonists saluted the new-comers with the cannon by which a moment before they had hoped to blow them out of the water.  Laudonniere issued from his stronghold to welcome them, and regaled them with what cheer he could.  Ribaut was present, conspicuous by his long beard, an astonishment to the Indians; and here, too, were officers, old friends of Laudonniere.  Why, then, had they approached in the attitude of enemies? The mystery was soon explained; for they expressed to the commandant their pleasure at finding that the charges made against him had proved false.  He begged to know more; on which Ribaut, taking him aside, told him that the returning ships had brought home letters filled with accusations of arrogance, tyranny, cruelty, and a purpose of establishing an independent command,—accusations which he now saw to be unfounded, but which had been the occasion of his unusual and startling precaution.  He gave him, too, a letter from Admiral Coligny.  In brief but courteous terms, it required him to resign his command, and requested his return to France to clear his name from the imputations cast upon it.  Ribaut warmly urged him to remain; but Laudonniere declined his friendly proposals.  

Worn in body and mind, mortified and wounded, he soon fell ill again.  A peasant woman attended him, who was brought over, he says, to nurse the sick and take charge of the poultry, and of whom Le Moyne also speaks as a servant, but who had been made the occasion of additional charges against him, most offensive to the austere Admiral.  

Stores were landed, tents were pitched, women and children were sent on shore, feathered Indians mingled in the throng, and the borders of the River of May swarmed with busy life.  "But, lo, how oftentimes misfortune doth search and pursue us, even then when we thinke to be at rest!" exclaims the unhappy Laudonniere.  Amidst the light and cheer of renovated hope, a cloud of blackest omen was gathering in the east.  

At half-past eleven on the night of Tuesday, the fourth of September, the crew of Ribaut's flag-ship, anchored on the still sea outside the bar, saw a huge hulk, grim with the throats of cannon, drifting towards them through the gloom; and from its stern rolled on the sluggish air the portentous banner of Spain.