There was a gentleman of Mont-de-Marsan, Dominic de Gourgues, a soldier
of ancient birth and high renown. That he was a Huguenot is not certain.
The Spanish annalist calls him a "terrible heretic"; but the French
Jesuit, Charlevoix, anxious that the faithful should share the glory of
his exploits, affirms, that, like his ancestors before him, he was a
good Catholic. If so, his faith sat lightly upon him; and Catholic or
heretic, he hated the Spaniards with a mortal hate. Fighting in the
Italian wars,--for, from boyhood, he was wedded to the sword,--they had
taken him prisoner near Siena, where he had signalized himself by a
fiery and determined bravery. With brutal insult, they chained him to
the oar as a galley-slave. After long endurance of this ignominy, the
Turks had captured the vessel and carried her to Constantinople. It was
but a change of tyrants; but, soon after, putting out on a cruise,
Gourgues still at the oar, a galley of the Maltese knights hove in
sight, bore down on the prize, recaptured her, and set the prisoner
free. For several years after, his restless spirit found escape in
voyages to Africa, Brazil, and regions yet more remote. His naval repute
rose high, but his grudge against the Spaniards still rankled within
him; and when, returned from his rovings, he learned the tidings from
Florida, his hot Gascon blood boiled with fury.
The honor of France had been foully stained, and there was none to wipe
away the shame. The faction-ridden King was dumb. The nobles who
surrounded him were in the Spanish interest. Then, since they proved
recreant, he, Dominic de Gourgues, a simple gentleman, would take upon
him to avenge the wrong, and restore the dimmed lustre of the French
name. He sold his inheritance, borrowed money from his brother, who held
a high post in Guienne, and equipped three small vessels, navigable by
sail or oar. On board he placed a hundred arquebusiers and eighty
sailors, prepared to fight on land, if need were. The noted Blaise de
Montluc, then lieutenant for the King in Guienne, gave him a commission
to make war on the negroes of Benin, that is, to kidnap them as slaves,
an adventure then held honorable.
His true design was locked within his own breast. He mustered his
followers, feasted them,--not a few were of rank equal to his own,--and,
on the twenty-second of August, 1567, sailed from the mouth of the
Charente. Off Cape Finisterre, so violent a storm buffeted his ships
that his men clamored to return; but Gourgues's spirit prevailed. He
bore away for Barbary, and, landing at the Rio del Oro, refreshed and
cheered them as he best might. Thence he sailed to Cape Blanco, where
the jealous Portuguese, who had a fort in the neighborhood, set upon him
three negro chiefs. Gourgues beat them off, and remained master of the
harbor; whence, however, he soon voyaged onward to Cape Verd, and,
steering westward, made for the West Indies. Here, advancing from island
to island, he came to Hispaniola, where, between the fury of a hurricane
at sea and the jealousy of the Spaniards on shore, he was in no small
jeopardy,--"the Spaniards," exclaims the indignant journalist, "who
think that this New World was made for nobody but them, and that no
other man living has a right to move or breathe here!" Gourgues landed,
however, obtained the water of which he was in need, and steered for
Cape San Antonio, in Cuba. There he gathered his followers about him,
and addressed them with his fiery Gascon eloquence. For the first time,
he told them his true purpose. He inveighed against Spanish cruelty. He
painted, with angry rhetoric, the butcheries of Fort Caroline and St.
Augustine.
"What disgrace," he cried, "if such an insult should pass unpunished!
What glory to us, if we revenge it! To this I have devoted my fortune. I
relied on you. I thought you jealous enough of your country's glory to
sacrifice life itself in a cause like this. Was I deceived? I will show
you the way; I will be always at your head; I will bear the brunt of
danger. Will you refuse to follow me?"
At first his startled hearers listened in silence; but soon the passions
of that adventurous age rose responsive to his words. The sparks fell
among gunpowder. The combustible French nature burst into flame. The
enthusiasm of the soldiers rose to such a pitch that Gourgues had much
ado to make them wait till the moon was full before tempting the perils
of the Bahama Channel. His time came at length. The moon rode high above
the lonely sea, and, silvered in its light, the ships of the avenger
held their course.
But how, meanwhile, had it fared with the Spaniards in Florida? The
good-will of the Indians had vanished. The French had been obtrusive and
vexatious guests; but their worst trespasses had been mercy and
tenderness, to the daily outrage of the new-comers. Friendship had
changed to aversion, aversion to hatred, hatred to open war. The
forest-paths were beset; stragglers were cut off; and woe to the
Spaniard who should venture after nightfall beyond call of the outposts!
Menendez, however, had strengthened himself in his new conquest. St.
Augustine was well fortified; Fort Caroline, now Fort San Mateo, was
repaired; and two redoubts were thrown up to guard the mouth of the
River of May. Thence, on an afternoon in April, the Spaniards saw three
sail steering northward. Unsuspicious of an enemy, their batteries
boomed a salute. Gourgues's ships replied, then stood out to sea, and
were lost in the shades of evening.
They kept their course all night, and, as day broke, anchored at the
mouth of a river, the St. Mary's or the Santilla, by their reckoning
fifteen leagues north of the River of May. Here, as it grew light,
Gourgues saw the borders of the sea thronged with savages, armed and
plumed for war. They, too, had mistaken the strangers for Spaniards, and
mustered to meet their tyrants at the landing. But in the French ships
there was a trumpeter who had been long in Florida, and knew the Indians
well. He went towards them in a boat, with many gestures of friendship;
and no sooner was he recognized than the naked crowd, with yelps of
delight, danced for joy about the sands. Why had he ever left them? they
asked; and why had he not returned before? The intercourse thus
auspiciously begun was actively kept up. Gourgues told the principal
chief--who was no other than Satouriona, of old the ally of the
French--that he had come to visit them, make friendship with them, and
bring them presents. At this last announcement, so grateful to Indian
ears, the dancing was renewed with double zeal. The next morning was
named for a grand council. Satouriona sent runners to summon all Indians
within call; while Gourgues, for safety, brought his vessels within the
mouth of the river.
Morning came, and the woods were thronged with congregated warriors.
Gourgues and his soldiers landed with martial pomp. In token of mutual
confidence, the French laid aside their arquebuses, the Indians their
bows and arrows. Satouriona came to meet the strangers, and seated their
commander at his side, on a wooden stool, draped and cushioned with the
gray Spanish moss. Two old Indians cleared the spot of brambles, weeds,
and grass; and, their task finished, the tribesmen took their places in
a ring, row within row, standing, sitting, and crouching on the ground,
a dusky concourse, plumed in festal array, waiting with grave visages
and eyes intent. Gourgues was about to speak, when the chief, who, says
the narrator, had not learned French manners, rose and anticipated him.
He broke into a vehement harangue; and the cruelty of the Spaniards was
the burden of his words.
Since the French fort was taken, he said, the Indians had not had one
happy day. The Spaniards drove them from their cabins, stole their corn,
ravished their wives and daughters, and killed their children; and all
this they had endured because they loved the French. There was a French
boy who had escaped from the massacre at the fort. They had found him in
the woods, and though the Spaniards, who wished to kill him, demanded
that they should give him up, they had kept him for his friends.
"Look!" pursued the chief, "here he is!"--and he brought forward a youth
of sixteen, named Pierre Debre, who became at once of the greatest
service to the French, his knowledge of the Indian language making him
an excellent interpreter.
Delighted as he was at this outburst against the Spaniards, Gourgues by
no means saw fit to display the full extent of his satisfaction. He
thanked the Indians for their good-will, exhorted them to continue in
it, and pronounced an ill-merited eulogy on the greatness and goodness
of his King. As for the Spaniards, he said, their day of reckoning was
at hand; and if the Indians had been abused for their love of the
French, the French would be their avengers. Here Satouriona forgot his
dignity, and leaped up for joy.
"What!" he cried, "will you fight the Spaniards?"
"I came here," replied Gourgues, "only to reconnoitre the country and
make friends with you, then to go back and bring more soldiers; but when
I hear what you are suffering from them, I wish to fall upon them this
very day, and rescue you from their tyranny." And, all around the ring,
a clamor of applauding voices greeted his words.
"But you will do your part," pursued the Frenchman; "you will not leave
us all the honor."
"We will go," replied Satouriona, "and die with you, if need be."
"Then, if we fight, we ought to fight at once. How soon can you have
your warriors ready to march?"
The chief asked three days for preparation. Gourgues cautioned him to
secrecy, lest the Spaniards should take alarm.
"Never fear," was the answer; "we hate them more than you do."
Then came a distribution of gifts,--knives, hatchets, mirrors, bells,
and beads,--while the warrior-rabble crowded to receive them, with eager
faces, and tawny arms outstretched. The distribution over, Gourgues
asked the chiefs if there was any other matter in which he could serve
them. On this, pointing at his shirt, they expressed a peculiar
admiration for that garment, and begged each to have one, to be worn at
feasts and councils during life, and in their graves after death.
Gourgues complied; and his grateful confederates were soon stalking
about him, fluttering in the spoils of his ravished wardrobe.
To learn the strength and position of the Spaniards, Gourgues now sent
out three scouts; and with them went Olotoraca, Satouriona's nephew, a
young brave of great renown.
The chief, eager to prove his good faith, gave as hostages his only son
and his favorite wife. They were sent on board the ships, while the
savage concourse dispersed to their encampments, with leaping, stamping,
dancing, and whoops of jubilation.
The day appointed came, and with it the savage army, hideous in
war-paint and plumed for battle. Their ceremonies began. The woods rang
back their songs and yells, as with frantic gesticulations they
brandished their war-clubs and vaunted their deeds of prowess. Then they
drank the black drink, endowed with mystic virtues to steel them against
hardship and danger; and Gourgues himself pretended to swallow the
nauseous decoction.
These ceremonies consumed the day. It was evening before the allies
filed off into their forests, and took the path for the Spanish forts.
The French, on their part, were to repair by sea to the rendezvous.
Gourgues mustered and addressed his men. It was needless: their ardor
was at fever-height. They broke in upon his words, and demanded to be
led at once against the enemy. Francis Bourdelois, with twenty sailors,
was left with the ships. Gourgues affectionately bade him farewell.
"If I am slain in this most just enterprise," he said, "I leave all in
your charge, and pray you to carry back my soldiers to France."
There were many embracings among the excited Frenchmen,--many
sympathetic tears from those who were to stay behind,--many messages
left with them for wives, children, friends, and mistresses; and then
this valiant handful pushed their boats from shore. It was a
hare-brained venture, for, as young Debre had assured them, the
Spaniards on the River of May were four hundred in number, secure behind
their ramparts.
Hour after hour the sailors pulled at the oar. They glided slowly past
the sombre shores by the shimmering moonlight, the sound of the
murmuring surf and the moaning pine-trees. In the gray of the morning,
they came to the mouth of a river, probably the Nassau; and here a
northeast wind set in with a violence that almost wrecked their boats.
Their Indian allies were waiting on the bank, but for a while the gale
delayed their crossing. The bolder French would lose no time, rowed
through the tossing waves, and, landing safely, left their boats, and
pushed into the forest. Gourgues took the lead, in breastplate and
back-piece. At his side marched the young chief Olotoraca, a French pike
in his hand; and the files of arquebuse-men and armed sailors followed
close behind. They plunged through swamps, hewed their way through
brambly thickets and the matted intricacies of the forests, and, at five
in the afternoon, wellnigh spent with fatigue and hunger, came to a
river or inlet of the sea, not far from the first Spanish fort. Here
they found three hundred Indians waiting for them.
Tired as he was, Gourgues would not rest. He would fain attack at
daybreak, and with ten arquebusiers and his Indian guide he set forth to
reconnoitre. Night closed upon him. It was a vain task to struggle on,
in pitchy darkness, among trunks of trees, fallen logs, tangled vines,
and swollen streams. Gourgues returned, anxious and gloomy. An Indian
chief approached him, read through the darkness his perturbed look, and
offered to lead him by a better path along the margin of the sea.
Gourgues joyfully assented, and ordered all his men to march. The
Indians, better skilled in woodcraft, chose the shorter course through
the forest.
The French forgot their weariness, and pressed on at speed. At dawn they
and their allies met on the bank of a stream, beyond which, and very
near, was the fort. But the tide was in. They essayed to cross in vain.
Greatly vexed,--for he had hoped to take the enemy asleep,--Gourgues
withdrew his soldiers into the forest, where they were no sooner
ensconced than a drenching rain fell, and they had much ado to keep
their gun-matches burning. The light grew apace. Gourgues plainly saw
the fort, whose defences seemed slight and unfinished. He even saw the
Spaniards at work within. A feverish interval elapsed. At length the
tide was out,--so far, at least, that the stream was fordable. A little
higher up, a clump of woods lay between it and the fort. Behind this
friendly screen the passage was begun. Each man tied his powder-flask to
his steel cap, held his arquebuse above his head with one hand and
grasped his sword with the other. The channel was a bed of oysters. The
sharp shells cut their feet as they waded through. But the farther bank
was gained. They emerged from the water, drenched, lacerated, bleeding,
but with unabated mettle. Under cover of the trees Gourgues set them in
array. They stood with kindling eyes, and hearts throbbing, but not with
fear. Gourgues pointed to the Spanish fort, seen by glimpses between the
bushes and brown trunks. "Look!" he said, "there are the robbers who
have stolen this land from our King; there are the murderers who have
butchered our countrymen!" With voices eager, fierce, but half
suppressed, they demanded to be led on.
Gourgues gave the word. Cazenove, his lieutenant, with thirty men,
pushed for the fort-gate; himself, with the main body, for the glacis.
It was near noon; the Spaniards had just risen from table, and, says the
narrative, "were still picking their teeth," when a startled cry rang in
their ears,--
"To arms! to arms! The French are coming! the French are coming!"
It was the voice of a cannoneer who had that moment mounted the rampart
and seen the assailants advancing in unbroken ranks, with heads lowered
and weapons at the charge. He fired his cannon among them. He even had
time to load and fire again, when the light-limbed Olotoraca bounded
forward, ran up the glacis, leaped the unfinished ditch, and drove his
pike through the Spaniard from breast to back. Gourgues was now on the
glacis, when he heard Cazenove shouting from the gate that the Spaniards
were escaping on that side. He turned and led his men thither at a run.
In a moment, the fugitives, sixty in all, were inclosed between his
party and that of his lieutenant. The Indians, too, came leaping to the
spot. Not a Spaniard escaped. All were cut down but a few, reserved by
Gourgues for a more inglorious end.
Meanwhile the Spaniards in the other fort, on the opposite shore,
cannonaded the victors without ceasing. The latter turned four captured
guns against them. One of Gourgues's boats, a very large one, had been
brought along-shore. He entered it, with eighty soldiers, and pushed for
the farther bank. With loud yells, the Indians leaped into the water.
From shore to shore, the St. John's was alive with them. Each held his
bow and arrows aloft in one hand, while he swam with the other. A panic
seized the garrison as they saw the savage multitude. They broke out of
the fort and fled into the forest. But the French had already landed;
and throwing themselves in the path of the fugitives, they greeted them
with a storm of lead. The terrified wretches recoiled; but flight was
vain. The Indian whoop rang behind them; war-clubs and arrows finished
the work. Gourgues's utmost efforts saved but fifteen,--saved them, not
out of mercy, but from a refinement of vengeance.
The next day was Quasimodo Sunday, or the Sunday after Easter. Gourgues
and his men remained quiet, making ladders for the assault on Fort San
Mateo. Meanwhile the whole forest was in arms, and, far and near, the
Indians were wild with excitement. They beset the Spanish fort till not
a soldier could venture out. The garrison, conscious of their danger,
though ignorant of its extent, devised an expedient to gain information,
and one of them, painted and feathered like an Indian, ventured within
Gourgues's outposts. He himself chanced to be at hand, and by his side
walked his constant attendant, Olotoraca. The keen-eyed young savage
pierced the cheat at a glance. The spy was seized, and, being examined,
declared that there were two hundred and sixty Spaniards in San Mateo,
that they believed the French to be two thousand, and were so frightened
that they did not know what they did.
Gourgues, well pleased, pushed on to attack them. On Monday evening he
sent forward the Indians to ambush themselves on both sides of the fort.
In the morning he followed with his Frenchmen; and as the glittering
ranks came into view, defiling between the forest and the river, the
Spaniards opened on them with culverins from a projecting bastion. The
French took cover in the forest with which the hills below and behind
the fort were densely overgrown. Here, ensconced in the edge of the
woods, where, himself unseen, he could survey the whole extent of the
defences, Gourgues presently descried a strong party of Spaniards
issuing from their works, crossing the ditch, and advancing to
reconnoitre. On this, returning to his men, he sent Cazenove, with a
detachment, to station himself at a point well hidden by trees on the
flank of the Spaniards. The latter, with strange infatuation, continued
their advance. Gourgues and his followers pushed on through the thickets
to meet them. As the Spaniards reached the edge of the clearing, a
deadly fire blazed in their faces, and before the smoke cleared, the
French were among them, sword in hand. The survivors would have fled;
but Cazenove's detachment fell upon their rear, and all were killed or
taken.
When their comrades in the fort beheld their fate, a panic seized them.
Conscious of their own deeds, perpetrated on this very spot, they could
hope no mercy. Their terror multiplied immeasurably the numbers of their
enemy. They deserted the fort in a body, and fled into the woods most
remote from the French. But here a deadlier foe awaited them; for a host
of Indians leaped up from ambush. Then rose those hideous war-cries
which have curdled the boldest blood and blanched the manliest cheek.
Then the forest-warriors, with savage ecstasy, wreaked their long
arrears of vengeance. The French, too, hastened to the spot, and lent
their swords to the slaughter. A few prisoners were saved alive; the
rest were slain; and thus did the Spaniards make bloody atonement for
the butchery of Fort Caroline.
But Gourgues's vengeance was not yet appeased. Hard by the fort, the
trees were pointed out to him on which Menendez had hanged his captives,
and placed over them the inscription,--"Not as Frenchmen, but as
Lutherans."
Gourgues ordered the Spanish prisoners to be led thither.
"Did you think," he sternly said, as the pallid wretches stood ranged
before him, "that so vile a treachery, so detestable a cruelty, against
a King so potent and a nation so generous, would go unpunished? I, one
of the humblest gentlemen among my King's subjects, have charged myself
with avenging it. Even if the Most Christian and the Most Catholic Kings
had been enemies, at deadly war, such perfidy and extreme cruelty would
still have been unpardonable. Now that they are friends and close
allies, there is no name vile enough to brand your deeds, no punishment
sharp enough to requite them. But though you cannot suffer as you
deserve, you shall suffer all that an enemy can honorably inflict, that
your example may teach others to observe the peace and alliance which
you have so perfidiously violated."
They were hanged where the French had hung before them; and over them
was nailed the inscription, burned with a hot iron on a tablet of
pine,--"Not as Spaniards, but as Traitors, Robbers, and Murderers."
Gourgues's mission was fulfilled. To occupy the country had never been
his intention; nor was it possible, for the Spaniards were still in
force at St. Augustine. His was a whirlwind-visitation,--to ravage,
ruin, and vanish. He harangued the Indians, and exhorted them to
demolish the fort. They fell to the work with a keen alacrity, and in
less than a day not one stone was left on another.
Gourgues returned to the forts at the mouth of the river, destroyed them
also, and took up his march for his ships. It was a triumphal
procession. The Indians thronged around the victors with gifts of fish
and game; and an old woman declared that she was now ready to die, since
she had seen the French once more.
The ships were ready for sea. Gourgues bade his disconsolate allies
farewell, and nothing would content them but a promise to return soon.
Before embarking, he addressed his own men:--
"My friends, let us give thanks to God for the success He has granted
us. It is He who saved us from tempests; it is He who inclined the
hearts of the Indians towards us; it is He who blinded the understanding
of the Spaniards. They were four to one in forts well armed and
provisioned. We had nothing but our right; and yet we have conquered.
Not to our own strength, but to God only, we owe our victory. Then let
us thank Him, my friends; let us never forget His favors; and let us
pray that He may continue them, saving us from dangers, and guiding us
safely home. Let us pray, too, that He may so dispose the hearts of men
that our perils and toils may find favor in the eyes of our King and of
all France, since all we have done was done for the King's service and
for the honor of our country."
Thus Spaniards and Frenchmen alike laid their reeking swords on God's
altar.
Gourgues sailed on the third of May, and, gazing back along their
foaming wake, the adventurers looked their last on the scene of their
exploits. Their success had had its price. A few of their number had
fallen, and hardships still awaited the survivors. Gourgues, however,
reached Rochelle on the day of Pentecost, and the Huguenot citizens
greeted him with all honor. At court it fared worse with him. The King,
still obsequious to Spain, looked on him coldly and askance. The Spanish
minister demanded his head. It was hinted to him that he was not safe,
and he withdrew to Rouen, where he found asylum among his friends. His
fortune was gone; debts contracted for his expedition weighed heavily on
him; and for years he lived in obscurity, almost in misery. At length a
dawn brightened for him. Elizabeth of England learned his merits and
his misfortunes, and invited him to enter her service. The King, who,
says the Jesuit historian, had always at heart been delighted with his
achievement, openly restored him to favor; while, some years later, Don
Antonio tendered him command of his fleet to defend his right to the
crown of Portugal against Philip II. Gourgues, happy once more to cross
swords with the Spaniards, gladly embraced this offer; but, on his way
to join the Portuguese prince, he died at Tours of a sudden illness. The
French mourned the loss of the man who had wiped a blot from the
national scutcheon, and respected his memory as that of one of the best
captains of his time. And, in truth, if a zealous patriotism, a fiery
valor, and skilful leadership are worthy of honor, then is such tribute
due to Dominic de Gourgues, despite the shadowing vices which even the
spirit of that wild age can only palliate, the personal hate that aided
the impulse of his patriotism, and the implacable cruelty that sullied
his courage.
Romantic as his exploit was, it lacked the fulness of poetic justice,
since the chief offender escaped him. While Gourgues was sailing towards
Florida, Menendez was in Spain, high in favor at court, where he told to
approving ears how he had butchered the heretics. Borgia, the sainted
General of the Jesuits, was his fast friend; and two years later, when
he returned to America, the Pope, Paul V., regarding him as an
instrument for the conversion of the Indians, wrote him a letter with
his benediction. He reestablished his power in Florida, rebuilt Fort San
Mateo, and taught the Indians that death or flight was the only refuge
from Spanish tyranny. They murdered his missionaries and spurned their
doctrine. "The Devil is the best thing in the world," they cried; "we
adore him; he makes men brave." Even the Jesuits despaired, and
abandoned Florida in disgust.
Menendez was summoned home, where fresh honors awaited him from the
crown, though, according to the somewhat doubtful assertion of the
heretical Grotius, his deeds had left a stain upon his name among the
people. He was given command of the armada of three hundred sail and
twenty thousand men, which, in 1574, was gathered at Santander against
England and Flanders. But now, at the climax of his fortunes, his career
was abruptly closed. He died suddenly, at the age of fifty-five. What
caused his death? Grotius affirms that he killed himself; but, in his
eagerness to point the moral of his story, he seems to have overstepped
the bounds of historic truth. The Spanish bigot was rarely a suicide,
for the rights of Christian burial and repose in consecrated ground were
denied to the remains of the self-murderer. There is positive evidence,
too, in a codicil to the will of Menendez, dated at Santander on the
fifteenth of September, 1574, that he was on that day seriously ill,
though, as the instrument declares, "sound of mind." There is reason,
then, to believe that this pious cut-throat died a natural death,
crowned with honors, and compassed by the consolations of his religion.
It was he who crushed French Protestantism in America. To plant
religious freedom on this Western soil was not the mission of France. It
was for her to rear in Northern forests the banner of Absolutism and of
Rome; while, among the rocks of Massachusetts, England and Calvin
fronted her in dogged and deadly opposition.
Civilization in North America found its pioneer, its forlorn hope, less
in England than in France. For, long before the ice-crusted pines of
Plymouth had listened to the rugged psalmody of the Puritan, the
solitudes of Western New York and the shadowy wilderness of Lake Huron
were trodden by the iron heel of the soldier and the sandalled foot of
the Franciscan friar. They who bore the fleur-de-lis were always in the
van, patient, daring, indomitable. And foremost on this bright roll of
forest-chivalry stands the half-forgotten name of Samuel de Champlain.