University of Virginia Library

5. V.
THE LEGEND OF GUERNACHE. Chap. III.

The fidelity which Guernache had shown in the recent difficulty
with the Indians, did not appear to lessen in any degree
the unfavorable impressions which Capt. Albert had received of
that worthy fellow. Indeed, the recent and remarkable service
which he had rendered, by which, in all probability, the whole
party had been preserved from massacre, rather increased, if any
thing, the hostile temper of his superior. The evil spirit still
raged within the bosom of Capt. Albert, utterly baffling a judgment
at no period of particular excellence, and blinding every
honorable sentiment which might have distinguished him under
other influences. He was now doubly mortified, that he should
be supposed to owe his present safety to the person he had
wronged—a mortification which found due increase as he remembered
how much greater had been the respect and deference of
the savages for his drummer than for himself. This recollection
was a perpetual goad to that working malice in his heart, which
was already busied in devising schemes of revenge, which were
to salve his hurts of pride and vanity, by the sufferings as well

as humiliation of his subordinate. It will scarcely be believed
that, when fairly out of sight of the village of Audusta, he rebuked
Guernache sharply, for leaving the pinnace against his
orders, and even spoke of punishing him for this disobedience.[1]
But the murmurs of some of his officers, and, perhaps, a little
lurking sentiment of shame in his own bosom, prevented him
from attempting any such disgraceful proceeding. But the feeling
of hostility only rankled the more because of its suppression,
and he soon contrived to show Guernache and, indeed, everybody
besides, that from that hour he was his most bitter and unforgiving
enemy, with a little and malignant spirit, he employed various
petty arts, which a superior of a base nature may readily
command on all occasions, by which to make the poor fellow feel
how completely he was at his mercy; and each day exposed him
to some little snare, or some stern caprice, by which Guernache
became involuntarily an offender. His tyrant subjected him to
duties the most troublesome and humiliating, while denying, or
stinting him of all those privileges which were yet commonly accorded
to his comrades. But all this would have been as nothing
to Guernache, if he had not been denied permission to visit, as
before, the hamlet of Audusta, where his princess dwelt. On
the miserable pretext that the priesthood might revenge upon
him the misconduct of Renaud, Albert insisted upon his abstaining
wholly from the Indian territories. But this pretence deceived
nobody, and nobody less than Guernache. Little did the
petty tyrant of Fort Charles imagine that the object of his
malice enjoyed a peculiar source of consolation for all these
privations. His comrades were his friends. They treated him
with a warmth and kindness, studiously proportioned to the illtreatment
of his superior. They assisted him in the severer
tasks which were allotted him to fulfil—gave him their company
whenever this was possible, while he was engaged in the execution
of his most cheerless duties, and soothed his sorrows by the
expression of their almost unanimous sympathies. Nor did they
always withhold their bitter denunciations of the miserable despotism
under which he suffered, and which they feared. Dark
hints of remedy were spoken, brows frowned at the mention of
the wrongs of their companion, and the head shaken ominously,
when words of threatening significance were uttered—appealed
gratefully to certain bitter desires which had taken root in the
mind of the victim. But these sympathies, though grateful,
were of small amount in comparison with another source of
consolation, which contributed to sustain Guernache in his tribulation.
This was found in the secret companionship of his young
and beautiful Indian wife. Denied to see him at the village of
Audusta, the fond and fearless woman determined to seek him at
all hazards in his own domain. She stole away secretly to the
fortress of the Huguenots. Long and earnest was the watch which
she maintained upon its portals, from the thickets of the neighboring
wood. Here, vigilant as the sentinel that momently
expects his foe, she harbored close, in waiting for the beloved
one. Her quick instincts had already taught her the true cause
of his denial, and of her disappointment; and her Indian lessons
had made that concealment, which she now believed to be necessary
to her purpose, a part of the habitual policy of her people.
She showed herself to none of the people of the fortress. She
suspected them all; she had no faith but in the single one. And
he, at length, came forth, unaccompanied, in the prosecution of an
occasional labor—that of cutting and procuring wood. She suffered
him to make his way into the forests—to lose sight of the
fortress, and, with a weary spirit and a wounded soul, to begin
his lonely labors with the axe. Then did she steal behind him,
and beside him; and when he moaned aloud—supposing that he
had no auditor—how startling fell upon his ear the sweet, soft
whisper of that precious voice which he had so lovingly learned
to distinguish from all others. He turned with a gush of rapturous
delight, and, weeping, she rushed into his arms, pouring
forth, in a wild cry, upon his breast, the whole full volume of
her warm, devoted heart!

That moment, in spite of all his fears, was amply compensative
to Guernache for all his troubles. He forgot them all in the intensity
of his new delights. And when Monaletta led him off
from his tasks to the umbrageous retreat in the deeper woods
where her nights had been recently passed,—when she conducted
him to the spot where her own hands had built a mystic bower for
her own shelter—when she declared her purpose still to occupy
this retreat, in the solitude alone,—that she might be ever near
him, to behold him at a distance, herself unseen, when he came
forth accompanied by others—to join him, to feel his embrace,
hear his words of love, and assist him in his labors when he came
forth unattended—when, speaking and promising thus, she lay
upon the poor fellow's bosom, looking up with tearful and bright
eyes in his wan and apprehensive countenance—then it was that
he could forget his tyrant—could lose his fears and sorrows in his
love, and in the enjoyment of moments the most precious to his

heart, forget all the accompanying influences which might endanger
his safety.

But necessity arose sternly between the two, and pointed to the
exactions of duty. The tasks of Guernache were to be completed.
His axe was required to sound among the trees of the
forest, and a certain number of pieces of timber were required
by sunset at his hands. It was surprising as it was sweet to
behold the Indian woman as she assisted him in his tasks. Her
strength did not suffice for the severer toils of the wood-cutter,
but she contrived a thousand modes for contributing to his performances.
Love lightens every labor, and invents a thousand
arts by which to do so. Monaletta anticipated the wants of
Guernache. She removed the branches as he smote them, she
threw the impediments from his way,—helped him to lift and turn
the logs as each successive side was to be hewn. She brought
him water, when he thristed, from the spring. She spoke and
sung to him in the most encouraging voice when he was weary.
He was never weary when with her.

Guernache combatted her determination to remain in the neighborhood
of the fortress; but his objections were feebly urged, and
she soon overcame them. He had not the courage to insist upon
his argument, as he had not the strength to resist the consolations
which her presence brought him. She soon succeeded in assuring
him that there was little or no danger of detection by their enemy.
She laughed at the idea of the Frenchmen discovering her place
of concealment, surprising her in her progress through the woods,
or overtaking her in flight; and Guernache knew enough of Indian
subtlety readily to believe that the white was no match for the
dusky race in the exercise of all those arts which are taught by
forest life. “But her loneliness and privation, exposed to the

season's changes, and growing melancholy in the absence from old
associates?” But how could she be lonely, was her argument,
when near the spot where he dwelt—when she could see and hear
and speak with him occasionally? She wished no other communion.
As for the exposure of her present abode, was it
greater than that to which the wandering life of the red-man
subjects his people at all seasons? The Indian woman is quite as
much at home in the forest as the Indian warrior. She acquires
her resources of strength and dexterity in his company, and by
the endurance of similar necessities and the employment of like
exercises. She learns even in childhood to build her own green
bower at night, to gather her own fuel, light her own fire, dress
her own meat—nay, provide it; and, weaponed with bow, and
javelin and arrow, bring down buck or doe bounding at full speed
through the wildest forests. Her skill and spirit are only not
equal to those of the master by whom she is taught, but she
acquires his arts to a degree which makes her sometimes worthy
to be lifted by the tribe from her own rank into his. Monaletta
reminded Guernache of all these things. She had the most conclusive
and convincing methods of argument. She reassured him
on all his doubts, and, in truth, it was but too easy to do so. It
was unhappy for them both, as we shall see hereafter, that the
selfish passion of the poor musician too readily reconciled him to
a self-devotion on the part of his wife, which subjected her to his
own perils, and greatly tended to their increase. With the evil
eye of Albert upon him, he should have known that safety was
impossible for him in the event of error. And error was inevitable
now, with the pleasant tempter so near his place of
coventry. We must not wonder to discover now that Guernache
seldom sleeps within the limits of the fortress. At midnight,
when all is dark and quiet, he leaps over the walls, those nights
excepted when it is his turn of duty to watch within. His secret
is known to some of his comrades; but they are too entirely his
friends to betray him to a despot who had, by this time, outraged
the feelings of most of those who remained under his command.
Guernache was now enabled to bear up more firmly than
ever against the tyranny of Albert. His, indeed, were nights of
happiness. How sweetly sped the weeks, in which, despite his
persecutions, he felt that he enjoyed a life of luxurious pleasures,
such as few enjoy in any situation. His were the honest excitements
of a genuine passion, which, nourished by privation
and solitude, and indulged in secresy, was of an intensity corresponding
with the apparent denial, and the real embarrassments of
such a condition. His pleasures were at once stolen and legitimate;
the apprehension which attends their pursuit giving a
wild zest to their enjoyment; though, in the case of Guernache,
unlike that of most of those who indulge in stolen joys, they were
honest, and left no cruel memories behind them.

It was the subject of a curious study and surprise to Captain
Albert, that our musician was enabled to bear up against his
tyranny with so much equal firmness and forbearance. He
watched the countenance of Guernache, whenever they met, with
a curious interest. By what secret resource of fortitude and hope
was it that he could command so much elasticity, exhibit so much
cheerfulness, bear with so much meekness, and utter no complaint.
He wondered that the irksome duties which he studiously
thrust upon him, and the frequently brutal language with which
his performances were acknowledged, seemed to produce none
of the cruel effects which he desired. His victim grew neither
sad nor sullen. His violin still was heard resounding merrily at

the instance of his comrades; and still his hearty, whole-souled
laughter rang over the encampment, smiting ungraciously upon
the senses of his basely-minded chief. In vain did this despot
study how to increase and frame new annoyances for his subordinate.
His tyranny contrived daily some new method to make
the poor fellow unhappy. But, consoled by the peculiar secret
which he possessed, of sympathy and comfort, the worthy drummer
bore up cheerfully under his afflictions. He was resolved to
wait patiently the return of Ribault with the promised supplies
for the colony, and meanwhile to submit to his evil destiny without
a murmur. It was always with a secret sense of triumph
that he reminded himself of the near neighborhood of his joys,
and he exulted in the success with which he could baffle nightly
the malice of his superior. But, however docile, the patience
and forbearance of Guernache availed him little. They did not
tend to mitigate the annoyances which he was constantly compelled
to endure. We are now to recall a portion of the preceding
narrative, and to remind our reader of the visit which Captain
Albert paid to the territories of Ouade, and the generous hospitalities
of the King thereof. Guernache had been one of the
party, and the absence of several days had been a serious loss to
him in the delightful intercourse with his dusky bride. He might
naturally hope, after his return from a journey so fatiguing, to be
permitted a brief respite from his regular duties. But this was
not according to the policy of his malignant superior. Some
hours were consumed after arriving at the fort, in disposing of the
provisions which had been obtained. In this labor Guernache
had been compelled to partake with others of his companions.
Whether it was that he betrayed an unusual degree of eagerness
in getting through his task—showing an impatience to escape
which his enemy detected and resolved to baffle, cannot now be
said; but to his great annoyance and indignation, he was burdened
with a portion of the watch for the night—a duty which
was clearly incumbent only upon those who had not shared in the
fatigues of the expedition. But to expostulate or repine was
alike useless, and Guernache submitted to his destiny with the
best possible grace. The provisions were stored, the gates closed,
the watches set, and the garrison sunk to sleep, leaving our
unhappy musician to pace, for several hours, the weary watch
along the ramparts. How he looked forth into the dense forests
which harbored his Monaletta! How he thought of the weary
watch she kept! What were her fears, her anxieties? Did she
know of his return? Did she look for his coming? The garrison
slept—the woods were mysteriously silent! How delightful it
would be to surprise her in the midst of her dreams, and answer
to her murmurs of reproach—uttered in the sweetest fragmentary
Gallic—“Monaletta! I am here! Here is your own
Guernache!”

The temptation was perilously sweet! The suggestion was
irresistible; and, in a moment of excited fancy and passion,
Guernache laid down his piece, and leaped the walls of the fortress.
He committed an unhappy error to enjoy a great happiness,
for which the penalties were not slow to come. In the dead of
midnight, the garrison, still in a deep sleep, they were suddenly
aroused in terror by the appalling cry of “fire!” The fort, the
tenements in which they slept, the granary, which had just been
stored with their provisions, were all ablaze, and our Frenchmen
woke in confusion and terror, unknowing where to turn, how to
work, or what to apprehend. Their military stores were saved—
their powder and munitions of war—but the “mils and beanes,”

so recently acquired from the granaries of King Ouade, with the
building that contained them, were swept in ashes to the ground.

This disaster, full of evil in itself, was productive of others, as
it led to the partial discovery of the secret of our drummer.
Guernache was not within the fort when the alarm was given. It
is not improbable that, had he not left his post, the conflagration
would have been arrested in time to save the fort and its provisions.
His absence was noted, and he was discovered, approaching
from the forests, by those who bore forth the goods as they
were rescued from the flames. These were mostly friends of
Guernache, who would have maintained a generous silence; but,
unhappily, Pierre Renaud was also one of the discoverers. This
person not only bore him no good will,—though gratitude for the
service rendered him at the feast of Toya should have bound him
forever to the cause of Guernache,—but he was one who had become
a gross sycophant and the mere creature of the governor.
He knew the hatred which the latter bore to Guernache, and a
sympathizing nature led him promptly to divine the cause. Overjoyed
with the discovery which he had made, the base fellow immediately
carried the secret to his master, and when the first confusion
was over, which followed the disaster, Guernache was taken
into custody, and a day assigned for his trial as a criminal. To
him was ascribed the fire as well as desertion from his post. The
latter fact was unquestionable—the former was inferred. It
might naturally be assumed, indeed, that, if the watch had not
been abandoned, the flames could not have made such fearful
headway. It was fortunate for our Frenchmen that the intercourse
maintained with the Indians had been of such friendly
character. With the first intimation of their misfortune, the
kings, Audusta and Maccou, bringing with them a numerous train

of followers, came to assist them in the labor of restoration and
repair. “They uttered unto their subjects the speedy diligence
which they were to use in building another house, showing unto
them that the Frenchmen were their loving friends and that they
had made it evident unto them by the gifts and presents which
they had received;—protesting that he whosoever put not his
helping hand to the worke with all his might, should be esteemed
as unprofitable.” The entreaties and commands of the two kings
were irresistible. But for this, our Huguenots, “being farre from
all succours, and in such extremitie,” would have been, in the
language of their own chronicler, “quite and cleane out of all
hope.” The Indians went with such hearty good will to the work,
and in such numbers, that, in less than twelve hours, the losses
of the colonists were nearly all repaired. New houses were built;
new granaries erected; and, among the fabrics of this busy period,
it was not forgotten to construct a keep—a close, dark,
heavy den of logs, designed as a prison, into which, as soon as his
Indian friends had departed, our poor fiddler, Guernache, was
thrust, neck and heels! The former were rewarded and went
away well satisfied with what they had seen and done. They little
conjectured the troubles which awaited their favorite. He was
soon brought to trial under a number of charges—disobedience of
orders, neglect of duty, desertion of his post, and treason! To
all of these, the poor fellow pleaded “not guilty;” and, with one
exception, with a good conscience. But he had not the courage
to confess the truth, and to declare where he had been, and on
what mission, when he left the fort, on the night of the fire. He
had committed a great fault, the consequences of which were
serious, and might have been still more so; and the pleas of invariable
good conduct, in his behalf, and the assertion of his innocence
of all evil intention, did not avail. His judges were not his
friends; he was found guilty and remanded to his dungeon, to
await the farther caprices and the judgment of his enemy.