CHAPTER 7

1613.  
LA SAUSSAYE.—ARGALL 

Pending these squabbles, the Jesuits at home were far from idle.  Bent on ridding themselves of Poutrincourt, they seized, in satisfaction of debts due them, all the cargo of his returning vessel, and involved him in a network of litigation.  If we accept his own statements in a letter to his friend Lescarbot, he was outrageously misused, and indeed defrauded, by his clerical copartners, who at length had him thrown into prison.  Here, exasperated, weary, sick of Acadia, and anxious for the wretched exiles who looked to him for succor, the unfortunate man fell ill.  Regaining his liberty, he again addressed himself with what strength remained to the forlorn task of sending relief to his son and his comrades.  

Scarcely had Brother Gilbert du Thet arrived in France, when Madame de Guercheville and her Jesuits, strong in court favor and in the charity of wealthy penitents, prepared to take possession of their empire beyond sea.  Contributions were asked, and not in vain; for the sagacious fathers, mindful of every spring of influence, had deeply studied the mazes of feminine psychology, and then, as now, were favorite confessors of the fair.  It was on the twelfth of March, 1613, that the "Mayflower" of the Jesuits sailed from Honfleur for the shores of New England.  She was the "Jonas," formerly in the service of De Monts, a small craft bearing forty-eight sailors and colonists, including two Jesuits, Father Quentin and Brother Du Thet.  She carried horses, too, and goats, and was abundantly stored with all things needful by the pious munificence of her patrons.  A courtier named La Saussaye was chief of the colony, Captain Charles Fleury commanded the ship, and, as she winged her way across the Atlantic, benedictions hovered over her from lordly halls and perfumed chambers.  

On the sixteenth of May, La Saussaye touched at La Heve, where he heard mass, planted a cross, and displayed the scutcheon of Madame de Guercheville.  Thence, passing on to Port Royal, he found Biard, Masse, their servant-boy, an apothecary, and one man beside.  Biencourt and his followers were scattered about the woods and shores, digging the tuberous roots called ground-nuts, catching alewives in the brooks, and by similar expedients sustaining their miserable existence.  Taking the two Jesuits on board, the voyagers steered for the Penobscot.  A fog rose upon the sea.  They sailed to and fro, groping their way in blindness, straining their eyes through the mist, and trembling each instant lest they should descry the black outline of some deadly reef and the ghostly death-dance of the breakers, But Heaven heard their prayers.  At night they could see the stars.  The sun rose resplendent on a laughing sea, and his morning beams streamed fair and full on the wild heights of the island of Mount Desert.  They entered a bay that stretched inland between iron-bound shores, and gave it the name of Saint  Sauveur.  It is now called Frenchman's Bay.  They saw a coast-line of weather-beaten crags set thick with spruce and fir, the surf-washed cliffs of Great Head and Schooner Head, the rocky front of Newport Mountain, patched with ragged woods, the arid domes of Dry Mountain and Green Mountain, the round bristly backs of the Porcupine Islands, and the waving outline of the Gouldsborough Hills.  

La Saussaye cast anchor not far from Schooner Head, and here he lay till evening.  The jet-black shade betwixt crags and sea, the pines along the cliff, pencilled against the fiery sunset, the dreamy slumber of distant mountains bathed in shadowy purples—such is the scene that in this our day greets the wandering artist, the roving collegian bivouacked on the shore, or the pilgrim from stifled cities renewing his laded strength in the mighty life of Nature.  Perhaps they then greeted the adventurous Frenchmen.  There was peace on the wilderness and peace on the sea; but none in this missionary bark, pioneer of Christianity and civilization.  A rabble of angry sailors clamored on her deck, ready to mutiny over the terms of their engagement.  Should the time of their stay be reckoned from their landing at La Heve, or from their anchoring at Mount Desert? Fleury, the naval commander, took their part.  Sailor, courtier, and priest gave tongue together in vociferous debate.  Poutrincourt was far away, a ruined man, and the intractable Vice-Admiral had ceased from troubling; yet not the less were the omens of the pious enterprise sinister and dark.  The company, however, went ashore, raised a cross, and heard mass .  

At a distance in the woods they saw the signal smoke of Indians, whom Biard lost no time in visiting.  Some of them were from a village on the shore, three leagues westward.  They urged the French to go with them to their wigwams.  The astute savages had learned already how to deal with a Jesuit.  

"Our great chief, Asticou, is there.  He wishes for baptism.  He is very sick.  He will die unbaptized.  He will burn in hell, and it will be all your fault." 

This was enough.  Biard embarked in a canoe, and they paddied him to the spot, where he found the great chief, Asticou, in his wigwam, with a heavy cold in the head.  Disappointed of his charitable purpose, the priest consoled himself with observing the beauties of the neighboring shore, which seemed to him better fitted than Saint  Sauveur for the intended settlement.  It was a gentle slope, descending to the water, covered with tall grass, and backed by rocky hills.  It looked southeast upon a harbor where a fleet might ride at anchor, sheltered from the gales by a cluster of islands.  

The ship was brought to the spot, and the colonists disembarked.  First they planted a cross; then they began their labors, and with their labors their quarrels.  La Saussaye, zealous for agriculture, wished to break ground and raise crops immediately; the rest opposed him, wishing first to be housed and fortified.  Fleury demanded that the ship should be unladen, and La Saussaye would not consent.  Debate ran high, when suddenly all was harmony, and the disputants were friends once more in the pacification of a common danger.  

Far out at sea, beyond the islands that sheltered their harbor, they saw an approaching sail; and as she drew near, straining their anxious eyes, they could descry the red flags that streamed from her masthead and her stern; then the black muzzles of her cannon,—they counted seven on a side; then the throng of men upon her decks.  The wind was brisk and fair; all her sails were set; she came on, writes a spectator, more swiftly than an arrow.  

Six years before, in 1607, the ships of Captain Newport had conveyed to the banks of James River the first vital germ of English colonization on the continent.  Noble and wealthy speculators with Hispaniola, Mexico, and Peru for their inspiration, had combined to gather the fancied golden harvest of Virginia, received a charter from the Crown, and taken possession of their El Dorado.  From tavern, gaming-house, and brothel was drawn the staple the colony,—ruined gentlemen, prodigal sons, disreputable retainers, debauched tradesmen.  Yet it would be foul slander to affirm that the founders of Virginia were all of this stamp; for among the riotous crew were men of worth, and, above them all, a hero disguised by the homeliest of names.  Again and again, in direst woe and jeopardy, the infant settlement owed its life to the heart and hand of John Smith.  

Several years had elapsed since Newport's voyage; and the colony, depleted by famine, disease, and an Indian war, had been recruited by fresh emigration, when one Samuel Argall arrived at Jamestown, captain of an illicit trading-vessel.  He was a man of ability and force,—one of those compounds of craft and daring in which the age was fruitful; for the rest, unscrupulous and grasping.  In the spring of 1613 he achieved a characteristic exploit,—the abduction of Pocahontas, that most interesting of young squaws, or, to borrow the style of the day, of Indian princesses.  Sailing up the Potomac he lured her on board his ship, and then carried off the benefactress of the colony a prisoner to Jamestown.  Here a young man of family, Rolfe, became enamoured of her, married her with more than ordinary ceremony, and thus secured a firm alliance between her tribesmen and the English.  

Meanwhile Argall had set forth on another enterprise.  With a ship of one hundred and thirty tons, carrying fourteen guns and sixty men, he sailed in May for islands off the coast of Maine to fish, as he says for cod.  He had a more important errand; for Sir Thomas Dale, Governor of Virginia, had commissioned him to expel the French from any settlement they might have made within the limits of King James's patents.  Thick fogs involved him; and when the weather cleared he found himself not far from the Bay of Penobscot.  Canoes came out from shore; the Indians climbed the ship's side, and, as they gained the deck, greeted the astonished English with an odd pantomime of bows and flourishes, which, in the belief of the latter, could have been learned from none but Frenchmen.  By signs, too, and by often repeating the word Norman,—by which they always designated the French,—they betrayed the presence of the latter.  Argall questioned them as well as his total ignorance of their language would permit, and learned, by signs, the position and numbers of the colonists.  Clearly they were no match for him.  Assuring the Indians that the Normans were his friends, and that he longed to see them, he retained one of the visitors as a guide, dismissed the rest with presents, and shaped his course for Mount Desert.  

Now the wild heights rose in view; now the English could see the masts of a small ship anchored in the sound; and now, as they rounded the islands, four white tents were visible on the grassy slope between the water and the woods.  They were a gift from the Queen to Madame de Guercheville and her missionaries.  Argall's men prepared for fight, while their Indian guide, amazed, broke into a howl of lamentation.  

On shore all was confusion.  Bailleul, the pilot, went to reconnoitre, and ended by hiding among the islands.  La Saussaye lost presence of mind, and did nothing for defence.  La Motte, his lieutenant, with Captain Fleury, an ensign, a sergeant, the Jesuit Du Thet, and a few of the bravest men, hastened on board the vessel, but had no time to cast loose her cables.  Argall bore down on them, with a furious din of drums and trumpets, showed his broadside, and replied to their hail with a volley of cannon and musket shot.  "Fire! Fire!" screamed Fleury.  But there was no gunner to obey, till Du Thet seized and applied the match.  "The cannon made as much noise as the enemy's," writes Biard; but, as the inexperienced artillerist forgot to aim the piece, no other result ensued.  Another storm of musketry, and Brother Gilbert du Thet rolled helpless on the deck.  

The French ship was mute.  The English plied her for a time with shot, then lowered a boat and boarded.  Under the awnings which covered her, dead and wounded men lay strewn about her deck, and among them the brave lay brother, smothering in his blood.  He had his wish; for, on leaving France, he had prayed with uplifted hands that he might not return, but perish in that holy enterprise.  Like the Order of which he was a humble member, he was a compound of qualities in appearance contradictory.  La Motte, sword in hand, showed fight to the last, and won the esteem of his captors.  

The English landed without meeting any show of resistance, and ranged at will among the tents, the piles of baggage and stores, and the buildings and defences newly begun.  Argall asked for the commander, but La Saussaye had fled to the woods.  The crafty Englishman seized his chests, caused the locks to be picked, searched till he found the royal letters and commissions, withdrew them, replaced everything else as he had found it, and again closed the lids.  In the morning, La Saussaye, between the English and starvation, preferred the former, and issued from his hiding place.  Argall received him with studious courtesy.  That country, he said, belonged to his master, King James.  Doubtless they had authority from their own sovereign for thus encroaching upon it; and, for his part, he was prepared to yield all respect to the commissions of the King of France, that the peace between the two nations might not be disturbed.  Therefore he prayed that the commissions might be shown to him.  La Saussaye opened his chests.  The royal signature was nowhere to be found.  At this, Argall's courtesy was changed to wrath.  He denounced the Frenchmen as robbers and pirates who deserved the gallows, removed their property on board his ship, and spent the afternoon in dividing it among his followers, The disconsolate French remained on the scene of their woes, where the greedy sailors as they came ashore would snatch from them, now a cloak, now a hat, and now a doublet, till the unfortunate colonists were left half naked.  In other respects the English treated their captives well,—except two of them, whom they flogged; and Argall, whom Biard, after recounting his knavery, calls "a gentleman of noble courage," having gained his point, returned to his former courtesy.  

But how to dispose of the prisoners? Fifteen of them, including La Saussaye and the Jesuit Masse, were turned adrift in an open boat, at the mercy of the wilderness and the sea.  Nearly all were lands-men; but while their unpractised hands were struggling with the oars, they were joined among the islands by the fugitive pilot and his boat's crew.  Worn and half starved, the united bands made their perilous way eastward, stopping from time to time to hear mass, make a procession, or catch codfish.  Thus sustained in the spirit and in the flesh, cheered too by the Indians, who proved fast friends in need, they crossed the Bay of Fundy, doubled Cape Sable, and followed the southern coast of Nova Scotia, till they happily fell in with two French trading-vessels, which bore them in safety to Saint  Malo.