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In Search of Mademoiselle

<h2>CHAPTER XV. THE LODGE OF SELOY.</h2> At the landing-place we were met by a large concourse of soldiers and priests, who crowded about with waving flambeaux, shouting and bidding the victors welcome. Then a half-dozen of the priests, with De Solis, took position at the head of the column and we marched toward the Lodge of Seloy, the priests chanting the Te Deum as we marched. And when we had come to an open place, a chaplain called Mendoza, who seemed a person of importance,—the same who has since written of this expedition,—came walking to meet the Adelantado, holding forward a crucifix in his hand. When Menendez de Avilés reached the spot where the chaplain stood, he fell down upon his knees and most of his followers with him and gave a thousand thanks for his victory. Then Mendoza raised his voice and said, “We owe to God and His mother, more than to human strength, this victory over the adversaries of the holy Catholic religion. The greatest[190] profit of this victory is the triumph which our Lord has granted us, whereby His holy Gospel will be introduced into this country, a thing so needful for saving so many souls from perdition.”[B] <div class="footnote"> [B] Mendoza’s Journal. </div> What a dreadful sacrilege it seemed that these brutal men, dripping yet with the blood of human creatures they had put to death, should call upon their God in thanksgiving, asking Him to be an accomplice in the murders they had done! By and by we were taken to the great Lodge of Seloy, which had been converted into a general council chamber and meeting-place. It was a huge barn-like structure, strongly framed of entire trunks of trees and thatched with palmetto leaves. Around it, entrenchments and fascines of sand had been thrown up so that it was very capable of defense. In one corner of this place there was a small cabin, used as a dungeon; it had a door leading out to the square and another leading into the large hall. But there were no windows, the light coming in the daytime from an aperture in the roof and in the night from a fire burning on the sandy floor. They threw us upon some cots of bark and skins and mounted a guard of three soldiers over us—far too many, I thought, since we were tightly bound. I looked about me, along the sides, trying to pierce the duskiness, which a torch and the burning[191] fire dimly served to lighten, to get my bearings in case any fortunate event should give a chance for escape. But I could see nothing to give hope now, and despondency came over me as I thought of what had been. Could it be that only a day had passed since I had been with my company of the Trinity alive and well upon the sand-spit? It seemed a hundred years. One by one the events of the last few days passed in view and I found myself marveling not a little at the actions of Diego de Baçan. He wished to torture me, no doubt; but as I thought of his manner, it seemed that he held me in a certain awe. The way in which his life and mine seemed intertwined, the one with the other, was strange indeed. I could not believe that I was to die as he had intended—before Mademoiselle. In spite of his boasts, I believed that she was not there at the Camp of San Augustin, nor yet at Fort Caroline,—now blood-christened San Mateo. I recalled the vision when half-distracted I lay upon the sands after the wreck, and I remembered the look in the eyes of Mademoiselle as she balanced the poniard upon her fingers. I had heard some of the guards speak of certain women who had been saved from Fort Caroline, but they were servants and wives of artisans, and I had not the courage to ask further. Had I done so they would doubtless have insulted her and demeaned me, or perhaps brutally[192] have told me of her death. So I thought it wise to hold my peace, though my heart seemed bursting within me. I watched the light flicker upon the breastpiece of the guard beside the fire, and wondered what the morrow would bring forth. Then the anguish and struggle of the day told, and I fell into deep and merciful sleep. In the morning they took us out manacled two and two and marched us up and down the square to keep the blood in circulation, that the withes might not bite too deep into the flesh before the time appointed; and this they did thereafter daily. They were fattening us like fowls. The soldiers came out and jostled and spurned us, tossing billets of wood at our heads so that we were dodging about, most of the time in a quandary. The guards seemed to have no interest in the matter and watched composedly as the others danced about us, laughing merrily at any sally more witty than ordinary. But for my part, I found it better to my liking than to lie there in the dark shadows of the Lodge of Seloy trussed like pigs for the Tavistock market. I bore these taunts and gibes in rare good humor, for I was stretching my limbs and could feel my strength coming back to me unimpaired. On the second day they took away the other prisoners, leaving only De Brésac and me together. Why they had spared him he could not[193] say, save only that Menendez himself, aiming a blow at him with a poniard and blood-befuddled missing his mark, had seen in that a sign of God’s displeasure, and so saved him until he might debate upon the subject. On the third day De Baçan, in company of Menendez de Avilés, going the rounds of the barracks, came to where we lay. Menendez had on a costly suit of black velvet with a cap to match, silk trunks and boots of a fine leather. He began prodding at me with his cane. “So this is the English heretic of Dieppe,” he said, making an uncouth sound which might have been a laugh in any other. “Señor,” said De Baçan, “this man has as many lives as a cat.” “Ah! But no more! We must take him severally—one life after the other. Have you thought of the matter, Captain?” “Nothing, your Excellency, save that the end for this one must be certain.” “And the other? Can they not be made to confess in the Faith? ’Twould be a merciful work to set them aright.” As they turned away, Menendez laughingly said, “Have them well fattened, my good Captain, for I like not scrawny captives. But after all we owe this fellow much, and dog that he is——” but I could[194] not hear the rest of what he said. ’Twas no cheerful conversation for De Brésac and me. At the end of this day a thing most curious happened. We were sitting bound by the fire, for after the dropping of the sun the night grew raw and chill. The guard had just been changed. The flames burned brightly within and made a yellow ghost of the sentinel at the door as he stood against the blackness without. A second guard sat within the lodge, and another could be seen down the path as he walked slowly to and fro. The face of the man at the door was held in the shadow of his morion, but I could see that he wore a great black beard which covered his face and that he was most stocky and strong of build, the muscles of his calves and thighs swelling out, much to my admiration, and his knotty fingers betokening great strength. ’Twould be no easy task to get by this fellow. Suddenly, clear and distinct upon my ear, but not so loud as to seem out of ordinary, came that same low whistle I had heard once before in the prison at Dieppe—the call of the boatswain upon the Griffin! My heart stopped its beat,—I thought that I had been dreaming, it was so low and soft. Then it came again, and De Brésac would have spoken of it had I not laid my hand against his arm. Whence did it come? I knew that I was not[195] mistaken now, and my heart was beating high. Then the fellow at the door whom I had been watching, after looking at his fellow guards, raised his head and I saw the movement of his lips through the great black mustache. I heard the whistle for the third time. I looked around hastily at the guard in the lodge, but he was intent upon burnishing his breastpiece. Presently I said in English as though speaking with De Brésac: “Welcome, Job Goddard, to San Augustin,” and I saw the shoulders of my sentinel shake in comprehension. Then he shouldered his arquebus and settled his sword in its sheath, walking up and down again. He made a threatening and ugly figure against the darkness, scowling as he walked, but he was so welcome a sight I could have shouted in glee. How in God’s providence had this seaman of mine been spared? Making no sign of aught unusual I talked on with De Brésac, telling him who this man was and how, God willing, we might make a break for liberty. I bethought me of a plan to have a sign with Goddard. I poured the water from the pitcher in a corner behind the skins and then raising my voice I cried in Spanish, “Hey, señor the guard! Is it not possible to have some water fresh from the spring? We die soon enough, in all conscience.” [196] But Goddard made no sign, only walking up and down and looking out into the night. I was perplexed. What could be the matter with the man? Could he not see the advantage I had prepared? “Hola, there!” I cried again, pointing to the pitcher, “our throats are parched. Water! water!” But he made no motion of having understood. Then the other fellow came forward grumbling. “You Frenchmen have throats of flint,” he growled, “but you may shout at that fellow till you die of weariness and he will not hear, for he has lost both speech and hearing. Patiño must think you safe enough. A fine fashion, I say, to leave the eyes and ears for me.” “Ah, he hears not?” said I, comprehending. “He is of a detachment from Fort San Mateo that came down to-night. I do not know him.” And taking the pitcher he went out past Goddard, jostling him with an oath, and so toward the spring that was at the corner of the building. No sooner had he gone than Goddard—being sure the third guard could not see—sprang with a bound to where we were lying. “You must get away to-night, Master Sydney,” he whispered hoarsely. “To-morrow they’ll find me out.” [197] “Yes, yes,” said I, starting up in excitement, “cut me loose!” “No!—not now! The square is full of soldiers. To-night! The scuts are drinking brandy brought from the Fort, sir. Before the change of the watch, I’ll have weapons an’ help ye both. Sh——” and he moved back to his post, for the third sentinel had come to the path. In a moment the surly fellow who had gone for water returned, and set the pitcher down between us. He found us talking with unconcern; though I felt my temples throbbing so that I feared he would discover me, and I was glad enough to raise the pitcher to my lips to conceal my excitement. De Brésac kept countenance well; and, unsuspecting, the guard returned to the task of cleaning the spots from his plates and morion. We could now hear plainly the shouts of the soldiers as they sang and danced in the square, though for an angle in the doorway we could not see them. They were making a fine festival over their feats of butchery! “’Tis fortunate,” whispered De Brésac, “for we may yet make a good running fight for it.” “Aye, Chevalier. ’Tis better to be spitted outright than to die at intervals. I think we may give some account of ourselves.” “If I had but a piece of steel,” he groaned,—“but[198] a piece of steel—I would make carrion of the fellow with the morion there!” “Aye, and you haven’t! Wait a little. Something may happen.” But like most plans of the like, this one came to naught; and I saw our hopes of escape upon that night go glimmering. For at about three hours from sunset who should come into the hut but Don Diego de Baçan with a quarrelsome disposition of mind and a swaggering body. He had been drinking freely and still carried a jug of eau-de-vie, from which he drank at intervals while he talked. With him were two officers, by name Vincente and Patiño. Patiño, a thin black fidgety shadow of a man, was captain of the watch. He had been upon the San Cristobal and I remembered him well. Fortunately, he, too, had drunk more than was good, for otherwise he was just such a squirming worm to pry into all small affairs with most profit, and I trembled lest Job Goddard should betray himself. They had us carried into the main hall, where a fire of logs was built; and then when chairs and table had been brought, they set upon us in every conceivable fashion to try the temper; to the end that in a short while De Brésac, whose nerves were near the surface, was touched to the very quick of his honor and lay foaming, speechless with rage. It suited the humor of De Baçan to offer us drink;[199] of which, since it came from his own jug, I took a little, though it was not needful for the business I had in hand, and I never had a habit of much drinking. “Well, my petticoat hunter,” he jeered at last, “you have made a fine mess of this business, sure enough.” “I must confess, Señor,” I replied, smiling up at him, “that I am none so comfortable as I might be.” “Comfort is ever the desire of old women and Englishmen, Sir Pirato!” “But we have no chance to exercise—to stretch our limbs——” I began. “Stretch indeed!” put in little Patiño. “There is a rack in the camp; it can stretch you out to ten feet at least, my friend.” “’Tis only a matter of a few inches more or less,” said De Baçan, laughing, “and upon my life, I have ever thought you too broad across the shoulders to be in good proportion.” Then the three of them roared with laughing. I saw no humor in this speech. “In a bout at strength I find the breadth of shoulder of some small value,” said I. “Well said! The old woman grows a spicy tongue, Patiño. Humph! You like the shoulders broad,—mayhap you’d like them broader; we can stretch or draw you out in any direction to suit the[200] fancy—cut you down or push you in—eh! Patiño?—bloat you up or pull you out—as you will. What think you of the business?” “There is small profit in it for me, Señor,” I replied in good part. “He’s content with his deformity, Vincente.” “’Tis like a smug Englishman,” sneered Patiño. “Nay, I am but a slow sort of person, lieutenant, and find your mode of progress far too rapid,” I laughed. “Bah!” growled Diego. “You fancy yourself most satisfactory upon all points.” “There is nothing that these Englishmen can do,” lisped Patiño, “but eat and sleep—eat and sleep——” “And fight, Señor,” said I. “You have forgotten the Great Griffin.” And as De Baçan laughed at him, the little man hid his face in his mug in chagrin. “Well, what of it, Englishman?” said Diego, smiling. “Let me tell you that the most of life lies not in fighting. There is one thing,”—and he paused significantly,—“one thing you fat-headed English don’t know—nor ever will. And do you care what that is? It’s woman! No more notion of the art of loving have you than a row of marlinespikes, no more warmth of temper than a dolphinfish! Pouf! You live too far away from the sun to have much success with ladies, Señor Killigrew.” [201] I foresaw now that finding other means unavailing to try my temper, he meant again to speak of Mademoiselle, knowing that here he had a never-failing source of rancor. I glanced to where Job Goddard stood at the doorway and a look passed between us. Then he went out into the shadow and disappeared down the path. I knew not whither Goddard had gone, and wishing to gain time, said with as good grace as I could summon, “The Spanish have ever had the repute for great courtliness of manner, Don de Baçan.” “You speak in ignorance, my fledgling. It is no question of manner, but of a thousand things you beef-eaters have no notion of.” “Aye,” said Patiño, ruefully, twisting his mustache, “and their women are as bad as themselves.” “Bah! they’re cold and lifeless every one of them. It is the French women who respond most aptly and most—er—delightfully—eh, Vincente?” “Yes, my captain,” he replied. “And of those saved from Fort Caroline”—and he grinned like a ghoul—“there are five or six most enticing.” “And most responsive you would say—eh? You are successful upon most occasions, Vincente.” And so saying he poured out a pot half full of his fiery liquor, which he straightway drained to the dregs, setting the vessel down with a crash which split it[202] half in two. Then he called to Goddard for a new pot and more liquor. But Goddard would not hear, and the other man was sent. “No, ’tis not courtliness, Señor Pirato,” said he, leaning forward at last, “but a matter which concerns only the lover and the lady—the flash of an eye—the touch of a hand—which sends the pulses tingling; the opening of the lips—which tremble for the touch of kisses—this and much more.” At this moment there was a noise without, which sounded like a groan, followed by silence, and I knew why Job Goddard had gone out by the sentry’s path. “What was it?” said Vincente, staggering to the door. But Job Goddard met him there most unconcerned, pointing out over his shoulder. “’Tis nothing but some drunken beast of a soldier,” said Patiño. And Vincente came back to the table. I now knew there was no time to lose, and made up my mind upon a course of action. Catching the eye of De Brésac, I suddenly began to strain at my bonds, jumping and struggling as well as I could about the fire, rolling at last under the table. “Here! here! what is the man about?” shouted Patiño. “Help, sentry, help, he will get away!” Goddard came running in and fell upon me with all his weight as though trying to secure me. I felt[203] his keen knife slit through the bonds and a poniard was thrust into my hand. Then we rolled out from under the table as though struggling furiously, and so upon De Brésac, Goddard turning him loose and arming him as he had armed me. The drunken fools seemed in a kind of stupor, not alive to what was really happening until we three sprang upon our feet. The surprise was complete and the advantage was clearly with us. I have never struck a blow so hard as that one which I put upon the face of this Vincente, for he went flying backward over the table, upon his head, his boots sticking up over a bench. Before Patiño could even draw, Goddard thrust him through the heart and he sank down, making no sound. De Brésac, seizing a sword, valiantly had set upon De Baçan; who, giving a roar like a bull, fell to with such energy that the Frenchman was put immediately upon the defensive and was forced over toward the door, through which, before we knew it, De Baçan vanished like the wind, running out across the square to the barracks of the men, yelling like a demon the while. He was a fiend incarnate, this man. There was not a moment to lose. Seizing the weapons of Patiño and Vincente, we dashed out around the corner of the lodge and so into the forest, running at the top of our speed. <hr class="chap" /> [204] </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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