THE LINE UPON THE SAND.
As I write, the memory of these scenes comes back to me as if the years
that are gone were but as yesterday. There is much that is too dreadful
to set down and the things of which I speak are told only in order
that they may be truthfully known of all honest men of whatever creed
or faith. I am told that the artist Le Moyne has related much that
happened at Fort Caroline and, as I have said, Nicholas Challeux, the
carpenter, has added more. But saving the short story of Christophe Le
Breton, there is nothing to my knowledge written down by any survivor
from the wrecked vessels of the French fleet. And though the acts of
one generation, or indeed a shorter period, may not be lightly judged
by another, it can be truthfully said that no deeds of savagery among
heathen peoples have ever surpassed those of Menendez for blood-letting
and ferocity. It has been told me that the Indians of Outina, seeing in
this Spaniard a cruelty and murder-love more marvelous than anything
they themselves had known or dreamed, fell straightway to worshiping
him as a god, aiding him in his devilries and hanging upon his orders
with a greater devotion than that displayed by his own men. Whether
this be true or not I do not know. I can better relate the things of
which I was a witness.
When we came back to the landing-place the Admiral had succeeded in
mastering his despair.
The Spaniard, Menendez, his hand upon his sword hilt listened to him
coldly:
“We are wrecked upon this barren shore,” Ribault was saying. “A death
from hunger threatens more even than your pikes and ordnance. We can
only throw ourselves on your pity. What has befallen us may one day
befall you.”
“That were indeed a misfortune,” replied De Avilés.
“I beseech you,” continued Ribault, “in the name of the friendship
between the Kings of France and Spain, who are brothers and close
friends, to aid me in conveying my followers home.”
Menendez paused a while. Then he said, slowly and deliberately, “Of
that I cannot say. If you will give up your arms and banners and place
yourselves at my mercy, you may do so; and I will act towards you as
God shall give me grace.”[A]
[A] “--si ellos quieren entregarle las Vanderas, é las Armas, é
ponerse en su Misericordia, lo pueden hacer, para que el haga
de ellos lo que Dios le diere de Gratia.”--The words of De
Solis, the brother-in-law of Menendez.
“I cannot be sure my followers will do that,” returned the Admiral,
“but there is little doubt that under this promise the greater part
of my officers and men will surrender upon these terms as honorable
prisoners of war. With your permission I will return and consult with
those in command upon the other shore.”
“Do as you will. Other than this you can have neither truce nor
friendship with me.” His manner after this was more cordial than before
and left a good impression upon our minds.
With formal salutations on both sides, we returned to the canoe. As
we were conveyed to our comrades upon the other shore the Sieur de la
Notte lay against my knee, conscious, but more dead with grief than
alive. I could say little save that I thought Mademoiselle was still
living; but I could not tell why, and he took no comfort.
In spite of the sights we had seen and the massacre of the company of
the _Gloire_ it was plain to all who had heard him that the words and
manner of Menendez contained an assurance of protection for such of us
as would surrender; but few were in a mood to give up without a battle.
The horror which hung over us and the tidings of the fall of Fort
Caroline had unnerved me. But the absence of Diego de Baçan I took for
a favorable augury, and fancied that perhaps Mademoiselle had escaped
to Satouriona and that De Baçan was searching for her. I knew that not
all at Fort Caroline had been killed, for one of the officers had said
as much. I could not believe Mademoiselle dead, for, that being so,
I felt that some instinct should tell me of it and I should have no
further wish for life. But back upon the shore my love of life returned
to me tenfold. I wished to live to find Mademoiselle, and would perform
any feat or strategy to save her and carry her back with me to England.
If she were alive, my death would not help her; if she were dead,
then my own life could be given in no better cause than in taking
satisfaction against him who had slain her.
It was no easy matter to decide. Whether to stay upon the sand-spit
to die of hunger or at the hands of the Indians, or to surrender to
Menendez and be sent for life to the galleys, I could not determine.
Either plan promised little enough. In the one case I was not sure
that communication with the interior could be found, for dangerous
swamps and quicksands ran this way and that, making progress almost
impossible; and starvation was imminent. Before we could come to
the domain of Satouriona there were miles of hostile country, the
traversing of which would take many weeks, perhaps months. To
surrender seemed equally desperate. We had seen the deeds of which this
madman was capable; and in spite of his word of honor, which holds high
among men of authority, and which he now wished to give under seal, his
humor might change and our fate be that of those who had gone before.
But by the one plan I could not hear of Mademoiselle for months; by the
other I would be carried straightway to San Augustin by our enemies,
and might see her within the week. The thought enthralled me.
By some ruse and skill I would effect her escape. De Baçan probably
thought me dead; and unless Mademoiselle had told him, could not know
that I was of this expedition. And the beard which had grown upon my
face might well disguise me; so that until I was prepared to meet him
on equal footing I would not let my presence be known.
In a little while the Admiral sent another messenger across the water
offering a ransom of an hundred thousand ducats, and the answer which
came back encouraged us much more. He would accept the ransom, he said,
“it would much grieve him not to do so, for he had great need of it.” I
felt that I could not do better than to become a captive, and so win my
way most quietly to where the prisoners of Fort Caroline were confined.
Toward evening, the sun being about an hour from setting, the Admiral
mounted upon a hummock of sand and addressed his desperate little army
in the following terms:
“You have heard, _mes braves_, of the conditions which this Spanish
general has set before us. Those among you who will render up your
arms and surrender in peace, he will accept as honorable prisoners of
war, to be done with as he shall deem most fitting. You have heard of
the massacre of your comrades of the _Gloire_ and must be the judge of
your own actions. I would force no man to surrender against his will
without a battle; but I do believe in the promises which now have been
made to me by word of mouth and by writ. For no man professing any sort
of religion, as this Spaniard does, were so hideous as to fall upon
unarmed men after a given word which has put them in his power.”
There was a murmur among the seamen and several of them raised their
voices, shouting,
“But he has done so! He has done so!”
“Perhaps,--my friends. I could not learn from the Spaniard how your
comrades of the _Gloire_ came to fall into his hands. But I cannot
believe that he promised to them what he has promised me to-day. I have
it from him in a writing which he has signed and sealed, and which
he has sent me of his own free will; and I believe that he will keep
these promises. On the morrow I shall surrender myself to him as an
honorable prisoner of war to be sent to Spain, and by the grace of God,
perhaps soon released.”
This last statement of the Admiral’s position raised a great
hue-and-cry among the company, and many of them shouted loudly.
“No, we will not go! We will not surrender!” Others were silent,
waiting for the Admiral to finish. He stood there upon the sand-hill,
his tall figure straight as a spar, outlined sharp and clear against
the western glow. His hands were clasped before him, a position in
which we had often found him of late, and he waited composed until the
strife should cease.
“My friends,” he said at last, and a deep and solemn silence fell
around us, “we are in the hands of God. We have done what it has
pleased Him to permit us to do toward building up in this great country
the Church of Christ according to our religion. We have been pursued by
every misfortune possible, and yet our faith in Him should not diminish
one jot.”
“Amen! Amen!” murmured many with deep reverence.
Then the Admiral walked down from the hummock towards the ocean,
drawing with his sword as he went,--a line in the sand! Then raising
his hand, he said,
[Illustration: “A LINE IN THE SAND!”]
“To-morrow morning, my friends, I shall surrender. All of those who
will accompany me will follow over upon the hither side of this line
which I have marked. I make no compulsion. Those others of you who will
not come must pass to the farther side.” And so saying he walked over
to the side of the line toward the Spanish camp.
It was a supreme moment. That mark in the sand which the winds and
seas could sweep away at will seemed the dividing line between life
and death, and none knew which side to choose. Not even a whisper came
from the men, and the droning of the surf as it rolled in on the beach
seemed ominous and loud in the stillness.
After a period of suspense which seemed interminable an old man with
a gray beard, bowing his head as though in submission to a will over
which he had no control, gathered his cloak about him and walked to
where stood the Admiral. Bordelais followed. Then Arlac and three
seamen passed to the opposite side. Bachasse, dutiful as ever, followed
his captain, together with Ottigny and others to the number of ten. But
many more moved to the opposite side. It was like a game. For, until
the matter was settled, no man spoke. They came from the crowd in twos
and threes, gravely until they reached their companions, when some of
them patted the others upon the back, saying quietly, but with good
cheer,
“We sink or swim together, mes gars!”
“There will at least be a fine fight, eh?”
“We are not yet ready for the sheep-market, mon Amiral!”
“There is still good wine to be drunk in San Augustin, and we’ve good
use for our windpipes.”
And many other rude jests which reached only the ears of La Caille, De
Brésac, myself and those few who were standing by them. For a moment I
wavered. There was something much after my own heart in the way these
brave fellows defied this Menendez, casting themselves out into the
wilderness of forest and swamp where death would certainly find them.
They had a fighting chance and La Caille, De Brésac and I would have
gone with them; but I knew that the surer way to Mademoiselle was that
which I had chosen, and so I wavered not for long.
By the time the sun was down the matter was settled, but few still
standing aloof. About two hundred officers and men had gone to the
further side, refusing to surrender, and were now forming into some
kind of martial order under Arlac, a sea-lieutenant named Pierre Le
Jeune and another called D’Alençon. The remainder, among them the Sieur
de la Notte, La Caille, De Brésac, Bourdelais, Bachasse, Ottigny, Job
Goddard, Salvation Smith, myself and many other soldiers and gentlemen
as well as seamen, to the number of about one hundred and fifty, stood
on the side of the Admiral.
With the vain hope that one of the French ships might yet appear
unharmed to take us off, the Admiral determined to wait until the
morning before crossing the channel, and so informed Menendez de Avilés
by messenger.
The night fell chill and gusty, for it was well into the middle of
October. That last night we remained together, those of one party
sending messages by those of the other to any refugees from Fort
Caroline who might be discovered, or friends in France whom they
might not see again. Huge fires were lit upon the beach in order
that any vessels sailing on the coast might see us and come to the
rescue. Around these we sat or lay, some of us sleeping but most of
us waking--until the dawn. When the stars began to pale a little, Le
Jeune, Arlac and D’Alençon got their men in motion, taking as many arms
with them as was needful, and marched down the beach in the direction
from which we had come. And that was the last I saw of them.