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In Search of Mademoiselle

<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/cover.jpg" width-obs="550" height-obs="822" alt="cover" title="cover" /></div> <hr class="chap" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/image01.jpg" width-obs="382" height-obs="600" alt="" title="" /> <div class="caption">“Then I left her.”</div> </div> <hr class="chap" /> <div class="tbox noic"> <h1>IN SEARCH OF MADEMOISELLE</h1> <div class="pad4 noic"> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/logo.jpg" width-obs="250" height-obs="100" alt="logo" title="logo" /></div> </div> <div class="byblock"> By GEORGE GIBBS </div> <table class="p6" cellpadding="10" cellspacing="0" summary=""> <tr> <td class="bt br noic">HENRY T COATES & CO.</td> <td class="bt noic">PHILADELPHIA 1901</td> </tr> <tr> <td> </td> </tr> </table></div> <hr class="chap" /> Copyright, 1901, by HENRY T. COATES AND COMPANY. <hr class="r10" /> ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. <hr class="chap" /> TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER THE LATE MEDICAL INSPECTOR Benjamin Franklin Gibbs, UNITED STATES NAVY. <hr class="chap" /> [iii] </div> <h2>NOTE.</h2> There were no more vivid episodes in the colonization of the New World than those resulting from the attempts of the French people to gain a permanent foothold on our shores. This fact has long been recognized by sober historians as well as by the writers of fiction, for all the fascination of romance holds over the whole field of inquiry. The most thrilling chapter in all this history, strangely neglected or overlooked by the romantic writers, is that of the struggle between the Spanish and French colonists for dominion over our own land of Florida. To me, whose profession it is to see pictures in the words of other men and to produce them, this historic page has appealed very strongly as the proper setting for a human drama—an inviting canvas upon which the imagination may paint a moving picture of the emotions, desires and passions—the loves and hates—of men and women like ourselves—against the somber and sometimes lurid background of historic fact. I have tried, so far as I have used history, to be scrupulously exact. I have carefully read the original or authorized editions of the writings of[iv] Hakluyt, Réné de Laudonnière, and a number of others; but there is little to be found in them which will not also be found much more vividly depicted in the writings of Mr. Francis Parkman. Some of the names will be recognized. Jean Ribault, Laudonnière, Menendez, the Indians Satouriona, Olotoraca and Emola, and others, were all real men. As for those others who are of the imagination—as for Mademoiselle and those who searched for her, it is to be hoped that they will not be found at odds with the events and scenes in which they are placed. These things, or others like them, must have been, for the writer of historic fiction may rely on the fact that human nature remains much the same, no matter how great the lapse of years. G. G. Bryn Mawr, March, 1901. <hr class="chap" /> [v] <h2>CONTENTS.</h2> <table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> <col style="width: 20%;" /> <col style="width: 70%;" /> <col style="width: 10%;" /> <tr> <th class="smfontr">CHAPTER.</th> <th class="tdl"></th> <th class="smfontr">PAGE</th> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">I.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Of my Meeting with Master Hooper</td> <td class="tdrb">1</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">II.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Of the Taking of the Cristobal</td> <td class="tdrb">10</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">III.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Mademoiselle</td> <td class="tdrb">29</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">IV.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Of my Bout with De Baçan</td> <td class="tdrb">39</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">V.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Dieppe</td> <td class="tdrb">51</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">VI.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">In which I Learn Something</td> <td class="tdrb">65</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">VII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">In which I Find new Employment</td> <td class="tdrb">81</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">VIII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">We Reach the New Land</td> <td class="tdrb">95</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">IX.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">We Put to Sea</td> <td class="tdrb">110</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">X.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Hericano</td> <td class="tdrb">124</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XI.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">What Befell Us upon the Sand-spit</td> <td class="tdrb">135</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Truce</td> <td class="tdrb">150</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XIII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Line upon the Sand</td> <td class="tdrb">164</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XIV.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Martyrdom</td> <td class="tdrb">174</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XV.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Lodge of Seloy</td> <td class="tdrb">189</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XVI.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Of our Escape</td> <td class="tdrb">204</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XVII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">In which we Journey to Paris</td> <td class="tdrb">219</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XVIII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Poet King</td> <td class="tdrb">235</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XIX.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">I Meet the Avenger</td> <td class="tdrb">252</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XX.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">We Set Forth Again</td> <td class="tdrb">267</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XXI.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">We Form an Alliance</td> <td class="tdrb">281</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XXII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">Olotoraca</td> <td class="tdrb">298</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XXIII.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Moon-Princess</td> <td class="tdrb">314</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XXIV.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">We Advance</td> <td class="tdrb">329</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XXV.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">The Death of the Wolf</td> <td class="tdrb">344</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdrt">XXVI.</td> <td class="tdl smcap">And Last</td> <td class="tdrb">361</td> </tr> </table> <hr class="chap" /> <h2>ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2> By GEORGE GIBBS. <table class="p2" border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations"> <col style="width: 80%;" /> <col style="width: 20%;" /> <tr> <td class="tdl hang">“Then I left her.” (Page 115)</td> <td class="tdrb">Frontispiece.</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdl"> </td> <td class="smfontr">PAGE</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdl hang">“A moi! a moi!”</td> <td class="tdrb">24</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdl hang">“A line in the sand!”</td> <td class="tdrb">170</td> </tr> <tr> <td class="tdl hang">“Quick as he was, my hand was ever quicker.”</td> <td class="tdrb">357</td> </tr> </table> <hr class="chap" /> [1] </div> IN SEARCH OF MADEMOISELLE. <h2>CHAPTER I. OF MY MEETING WITH MASTER HOOPER.</h2> It has ever been my notion that apology is designed to conceal a purpose rather than to express it; that excuse is not contrition but only self-esteem. Therefore it seems ill-fitting to begin my narration thus, especially as there are many Spaniards who will say that I lie in all that I have written. But this will matter little to me, for I have had good confirmation in the writings of their own priests and chroniclers. Before many years are gone, I will rest peaceful in the churchyard at Tavistock and the ranting of any person, of whatever creed will avail little to disturb my bones. I shall die believing in God Almighty; that is enough for me. These blind fanatics think themselves privileged to commit any crime in His name. They speak of God as though they owned Him; as though none other were in a position even to think of Him with any understanding. But indeed there is little to choose[2] between the madmen of any races. Twenty years have barely passed since Thomas Cobham sewed eight and forty Spaniards in their own mainsail and cast them overboard. Not long agone certain English soldiers in Mexico filled a Jesuit priest with gunpowder, blowing him to pieces. I do not attempt to justify my part in the happenings of which I am to write, and the terrible retribution brought upon the Spaniards. I can only say that my own intimate life and love were so twined into these events that I followed where my wild heart led, as one distraught. It is enough that I loved—and now love—Diane better than woman was ever loved, and that I hated Diego with a hate which has outlived death itself. Being but a blunt mariner and God-fearing man, with a knowledge of the elements rather than any great learning of the quiet arts, the description of these happenings lacks the readiness of the skilled writer, from whose quill new quips and phrases easily pass. Yet, what I, Sydney Killigrew, am to write has virtue in its reality; and its strangeness may even exceed those tales written by the sprightly wits of London, whom I am told it is the fashion of Her Majesty to gather about her. For although a true report of the people of Florida has been made by Admiral Jean Ribault, the story of the great deception practised upon him by[3] that Spaniard, Menendez de Avilés is now for the first time to be truly written by one who was with the Frenchmen at that time. And in view of the English settlements which may shortly be made by Her Majesty to the northward, it seems proper and valuable that this should be written. The more do I deem this my duty when I consider the cruel wars which men have fought for the modes by which the good God may be worshiped. Reformist, New Thinker, or whatever I may be, these events have only convinced me of the truth of the saying of my father, “Live thy life right, my young mariner, and thy mode of faith will be forgiven.” That great, good father—naval commander of his king, Councilor of the Realm, noble in life as in lineage—upon whose talents and genius every half-hearted earl in the kingdom had laid a claim! For whatever he may have lacked in wisdom for the betterment of his own estate in the world, he had ever the wit to advise others to their great good fortune and happiness. As I stood against a pile on the great dock at Plymouth and looked across the fine harbor through the network of rigging, I thought of the days of the Great Henry when good ships well manned and victualed, and commanded by men of valor and ingenuity, were ready at all hours to uphold the dignity of their king upon the water. [4] Now all was changed. The mighty fleets that lay off in Plymouth Sound in Henry’s day, had rotted in anchorage and not a halliard had been rove on a ship of the line for fifteen years. Discipline on royal ships was a matter of no account, for no man knew what change the week to come might work in his command. Even now the coasts of England lay open to the attack of any foreign ships that might choose to run in and fire the broadsides of their great new pieces of ordnance. Here in Plymouth harbor lay but four revenue ships of one hundred tons, and three converted merchant brigs which had been lightly armed. At London there were perhaps as many more, and these were all,—all that great fair England had in her harbors to ward off danger from the Spaniards, ever ready and watchful across the channel! There was naught for a seaman to do; and if a Bible or prayer-book chanced to be found on board any ship in Papist waters, she would be confiscate forthwith and her company of seamen would be carried to the prisons of the Inquisition. A voyage in the narrow seas, from which I had returned but a few days before, more than anything else had given me the desire to see service with some foreign nation where a stout arm had more value than a heart set on “paternosters” or psalm books. [5] In truth, though this trouble was partly of my own making, I had had enough of the merchant service. To go back to Tavistock was not to my liking; for though I had a taste for peace among men I had no stomach for a life of idleness. I had been bred by my father to the sights and smells of the sea, the voice of which was more grateful to my ears than the sounds of the wood-birds which had ever seemed to me mere shrill and noisy pipings. And though in no manner a brawler, a life of enterprise suited me mightily. As I labored in this quandary, a hand was laid upon my shoulder and a rough voice at my side said heartily, “Why,—is not this Sydney Killigrew of Tavistock?” And turning I saw Master David Hooper, my father’s friend, who went as Master Commander in the last cruise of the Great Harry. “None other, Captain Hooper!” said I, grasping with great joy his hairy fist. He held me off at arm’s length and looked at me carefully, noting my great stature with evident enjoyment. “The very image of thy father—though, by my faith, thou’rt built upon a more sumptuous scale. But, lad, what’s wrong? You’ve the air of a farmer’s boy two days from land.” And with that, after other exchanges of compliments, I told him how the world had gone with me;[6] how our estates had fallen from bad to worse and how little chance there seemed of pursuing the calling upon the ocean I loved and wished for. He heard me through, tapping the while thoughtfully with his fingers upon the pier head. “Come,” said he at length, “let us go to some place where we can discuss thy affairs at leisure.” And he led the way from the dock up the street to the Pelican Inn, where seafaring men such as ourselves were wont to go for a pot or so of Master Martin Cockrem’s own brewing. Once seated there in the quiet window seat overlooking the Sound, he questioned me closely as to my disposition in religious and political affairs. Then finding that I was not averse to taking up a true life of adventure upon the sea, he unburdened himself of his own plans for the future. “You know, lad, of the state of the Royal Navy. Nothing I can say will make you feel that the merchant service is secure from injury at foreign hands. Great Harry, the wonder of all Europe, lies rotting her ribs yonder, and there are no capable ships afloat. France would love well to see us all singing our ave Marias and salves in our deck watches, yet she has no love for the greed of Philip. So I say, lad, there is no present danger.” “And yet,” said I, “our commerce has been reduced to less than fifty thousand tons.” [7] “Softly, boy. Our carrying may not be so great as in the days of Harry, but neither France nor Spain carry more. For our own brave fleet of gentlemen cruisers has made sad havoc of their barques on the ocean, and not a Papist ship dare show her nose within a dozen leagues of the Scilly Isles.” “But these free ships have no warranty from the Queen.” “Marry, lad, you’ve the wit of a babe scarce out of swaddling clouts. Can ye not see how the wind sits? The Queen knows well how much she needs these independent ships of war. For reasons of state she may not openly encourage our enterprises; but, laddie, I tell you she has a secret love for them. As for warranty, what more would ye have than that?” And so saying, he put upon the bench between us a large parchment bearing the Great Seal of State. I scanned the document in an uncertain mood. For it set forth with many flourishes the rights “of one Master David Hooper to trade upon the oceans and to use his best endeavors to restrain by forcible or other means any enemies of Her Majesty from doing hurt or offering hindrance to any English persons or vessels on the high seas.” “Why, then, Captain Hooper,” said I, “you are still in the Royal Service.” “We are all in the service of the Queen, lad.[8] This license guarantees nothing and is in fact, to ordinary eyes, but a license to trade; and yet is it not of greater worth than a royal commission as captain in a navy which does not exist? A license to trade! Ouns! and such a trade! Why, lad, what is your ship’s cargo of wool stuffs to an after-castle full of silver flagons and Spanish ducats—with a taste now and then of good Papist wine to clear the gunpowder from your throat? Let them prate. Their undoing will be the greater. I tell you, we gentlemen adventurers stand yet between Spain and the mastery of the seas. It may come to pass that one day they will try to cross the channel,—they will never land, lad. All this and more the young Queen knows well. For though she has a grievous way of looking displeasure at one minute, she has as happy a one of winking merrily the next. “So it is, ye see, that Drinkwater, together with Cobham, Tremayne, Throgmorton, and others among us have survived both the prison and the noose and put to sea again with no greater loss than the proportion of the captured articles Her Majesty sees fit to take for the replenishment of the Treasury. This then is how the matter stands; so long as we masters may sail successfully, making no complications with France or the other countries to the north and east, Queen Bess wishes us a light voyage out and a heavy one home, and indeed delights in our tales of fortune,[9] to which she is wont to listen with sparkling eyes. The bolder the deeds the better they are to her liking.” I listened to this secret of state with eyes agog. Master Hooper paused in his talk long enough to drain his pot, which he set down abruptly upon the table. “Come, Sydney,” said he with a smile, and stretching both hands toward me, “what say ye to a voyage with David Hooper for a shipmate, in a bottom staunch from batts-end to keelson, the wind and seas for servants, and never a doubt but that to-morrow will be better than yesterday! Or perhaps the gruntings of the swine at Tavistock hold newer charms? What say ye?” Were it in my mind to debate upon an immediate answer, the mention of the pigs at Tavistock had done more to remove that uncertainty than aught else the gallant captain might have said. So I told him that his proposition was much to my liking, and, could I be of service, the swine at Tavistock might be larded for a lout with better land-legs and stomach than I. Thus it was that I came to be the third in command of the Great Griffin on her fourth voyage out of Plymouth. <hr class="chap" /> [10] </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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