3. CHAPTER III.—THE MIDNIGHT ARREST.
Sweet were the slumbers of Monsieur Laudonniere, commandant
of the fortress of La Caroline. Anxious was the wakening of
Stephen Le Genevois, the conspirator, who, in garbing himself
after the fashion of the Indian, had not succeeded in clothing his
mind in the stolid and stoic nature of his savage companion. The
conspirators watched together in one of the inner chambers of the
fortress. They had not restricted themselves to watching merely.
Already had Le Genevois made his purpose known to one of his
ancient comrades. The name of this person was La Croix. He
was one of the trusted followers of Laudonniere, whose superior
cunning alone had saved him from suspicion, even that of D'Erlach,
at the detection of the former conspiracy. La Croix, in the
absence of the latter, was prepared for more decisive measures.
He was one of those whose insane craving for gold had surrendered
him, against all good policy, to the purposes of the conspirators.
He was now in charge of the watch. As captain of the night, he
led the way to the gates, which, at midnight, he cautiously threw
open to the two companions of Le Genevois. Fourneaux and
Roquette had been waiting for this moment. They were admitted
promptly and in silence. Darkness was around them. The
fortress slept,—none more soundly than its commander. In
silence the outlaws led by La Croix, all armed to the teeth, made
their way to his chamber. The sentinel who watched before it,
joined himself to their number. They entered without obstruction
and without noise; and, ere the eyes of the sleeper could unclose
to his danger, or his lips cry aloud for succor, his voice was
stifled in his throat by thick bandagings of silk, and his limbs
fastened with cords which, at every movement of his writhing
frame, cut into the springing flesh. He was a prisoner in the
very fortress, where, but that day, he exulted in the consciousness
of complete command. A light, held above his eyes, revealed
to him the persons of his assailants;—the supposed Indians,
in the outlaws whom he had banished, and others, whom, for the
first time, he knew as enemies. When his eyes were suffered to
take in the aspects of the whole group, he was addressed, in his
own tongue, by the leading conspirator.
“René Laudonniere,” said Stephen Le Genevois, in his bitter
tones, “you are in our power. What prevents that we put you
to death as you merit, and thus revenge our disgrace and banishment?”
The wretched man, thus addressed, had no power to answer.
The big tears gathered in his eyes and rolled silently down his
cheeks. He felt the pang of utter feebleness upon him.
“We will take the gag from your jaws, if you promise to make
no outcry. Nod your head in token that you promise.”
The prisoner had no alternative but to submit. He nodded,
and the kerchief was taken from his jaws.
“You know us, René Laudonniere?” demanded the conspirator.
“Stephen Le Genevois, I know you!” was the answer.
“'Tis well! You see to what you have reduced me. You
have held a trial upon me in my absence. You have sentenced
me and my companions to banishment. You have made us outlaws,
and we are here! You see around you none but those on
whom you have exercised your tyranny. What hope have you
at their hands and mine? Savage as you have made me in
aspect, what should prevent that I show myself equally savage in
performance. The knife is at your throat, and there is not one
of us who is not willing to execute justice upon you. Are you
prepared to do what we demand?”
“What is it?”
“Read this paper.”
A light was held close to the eyes of the prisoner, and the paper
placed near enough for perusal. The instrument was a commission
of piracy—a sort of half-legal authority, common enough in
that day, to the marine of all European countries, under maxims
of morality such as made the deeds of Drake, and Hawkins, and
other British admirals, worthy of all honor, which, in our less
chivalrie era, would consign them very generally to the gallows.
As Laudonniere perused the document, he strove to raise himself,
as with a strong movement of aversion;—but the prompt
grasp of Genevois fastened him down to the pillow.
“No movement, or this!”—showing the dagger. “Have you
read?”
“I will not sign that paper!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.
“Will you not?”
“Never!”
“You have heard the alternative!”
Laudonniere was silent.
“You do not speak! Beware, René Laudonniere. We have
no tender mercies! We are no children! We are ready for any
crime. We have already incurred the worst penalties, and have
nothing to fear. But you can serve us, living, quite as effectually
as if dead. We do not want your miserable fortress. We are
not for founding colonies. It is your ships that we will take, and
your commission. We will spare your life for these. Beware!
Let your answer square with your necessities.”
“Genevois!” said the prisoner, “even this shall be pardoned
—you shall all be pardoned—if you will forego your present
purpose.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the person addressed. “This to me!
I scorn your pardon as I do your person! Speak to what concerns
you, and what is left for you to do. Speak, and quickly,
too, for the dawn must not find us here.”
“I will not sign!” said the prisoner, doggedly.
“Then you die!” and the dagger was uplifted.
“Strike—why do you stop?” exclaimed Fourneaux; “we can
slay him, and forge the paper.”
His threatening looks and attitude, with the stern air which
overspread the visage of Genevois, and, indeed, of all around him
contributed to overcome the resolution of the wretched commander.
Besides, a moment's reflection served to satisfy him,
that the conspirators, having gone too far to recede, would not
scruple at the further crime which they threatened.
“Will my life be spared if I sign? Have I your oath,
Stephen Le Genevois? I trust none other.”
“By G—d and the Blessed Saviour! as I hope to be saved,
René Laudonniere, you shall have your life and freedom!”
“Undo my hands and give me the paper.”
“The right hand only,” said Fourneaux, with his accustomed
timidity.
“Pshaw, unbind him!” exclaimed Genevois; “unbind him,
wholly. There, René Laudonniere, you are free!”
“I cannot forgive you, Genevois; you have disgraced me forever,”
said the miserable man, as he dashed his signature upon
the paper.
“You will survive it, mon ami,” replied the other, with something
like contempt upon his features. “You are not the man to
fret yourself into fever, because of your hurts of honor. And
now must you go with us to the ships. We will muffle your jaws
once more.”
“You will not carry me with you,” demanded the commander,
with something like trepidation in his accents.
“No! You were but an incumbrance. We will only take
you to the ships, and keep you safe until we are ready to cast off.
To your feet, men, and get your weapons ready. Softly, softly—
we need rouse no other sleepers. Onward,—the night goes!—
away!”
