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]

“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,

“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.