The Buccaneer Chief: A Romance of the Spanish Main

"Excuse me, noble caballeros," the monk stammered, "I am in an extraordinary hurry, and must leave you at once, though most reluctantly."

"Nonsense! Where could you go alone at this hour? Fall into a bog. Eh?"

This far from pleasant prospect caused the monk to reflect; still, the terror he felt was the stronger.

"No matter," he said, "I must be gone."

"Nonsense, you will never find your road to the hatto del Rincón in this darkness."

This time the monk was fairly conquered, this new revelation literally benumbed him, he fancied himself suffering from a terrible nightmare, and did not attempt to continue an impossible struggle.

"There," the engagé resumed, "now, you are reasonable; rest yourself, I will not torment you any more, and in order to prove to you that I am not so wicked as you suppose me, I undertake to find you a guide."

"A guide," Fray Arsenio stammered, "Heaven guard me from accepting one at your hand."

"Reassure yourself, señor Padre, it will not be a demon, though he may possibly have some moral and physical resemblance with the evil spirit; the guide I refer to is very simply a Carib."

"Ah!" said the monk drawing a deep breath, as if a heavy weight had been removed from his chest, "If he is really a Carib."

"Zounds! Who the deuce would you have it be?" Fray Arsenio crossed himself devoutly.

"Excuse me," he said, "I did not wish to insult you."

"Come, come, have patience, I will go myself and fetch the promised guide, for I see that you are really in a hurry to part company."

L'Olonnais rose, took his fusil, whistled to a bloodhound, and went off at a rapid pace.

"You will now be able," said Lepoletais, "to continue your journey without fear of going astray."

"Has that worthy caballero really gone to fetch me a guide, as he promised?" Fray Arsenio asked, who did not dare to place full confidence in the engagé's word.

"Hang it! I know no other reason why he should leave the boucan."

"Then you are really a buccaneer, señor?"

"At your service, padre."

"Ah, ah! And do you often come to these parts?"

"Deuce take me if I do not believe you are questioning me, monk," Lepoletais said with a frown, and looking him in the face; "how does it concern you whether I come here or not?"

"Me? Not at all."

"That is true, but it may concern others, may it not? And you would not be sorry to know the truth."

"Oh? can you suppose such a thing?" Fray Arsenio hastily said.

"I do not suppose, by Heaven, I know exactly what I am saying, but, believe me, señor monk, you had better give up this habit of questioning, especially with buccaneers, people who through their character, do not like questions, or else you might some day run the risk of being played an ugly trick. It is only a simple piece of advice I venture to give you."

"Thank you, señor, I will bear it in mind, though in saying what I did, I had not the intention you suppose."

"All the better, but still profit by my hint."

Thus rebuffed, the monk shut himself up in a timid silence; and in order to give a turn to his thoughts which, we are bound to say, were anything but rosy colored at this moment, he took up the rosary hanging from his girdle, and began muttering prayers in a low voice.

Nearly an hour passed then without a word being exchanged between the two men; Lepoletais cut up tobacco, while humming a tune, and the monk prayed, or seemed to be doing so.

At length a slight noise was heard a short distance off, and a few minutes later the engagé appeared, followed by an Indian, who was no other than Omopoua, the Carib chief.

"Quick, quick, señor monk," L'Olonnais said gaily; "here is your guide, I answer for his fidelity; he will lead you in safety within two gun shots of the hatto."

The monk did not let the invitation be repeated, for anything seemed to him preferable to remaining any longer in the company of these two reprobates; besides, he thought that he had nothing to fear from an Indian.

He rose at one bound, and bridled his horse again, which had made an excellent supper, and had had all the time necessary to rest.

"Señores," he said, so soon as he was in the saddle, "I thank you for your generous hospitality, may the blessing of the Lord be upon you!"

"Thanks," the engagé replied with a laugh, "but one last hint before parting; on arriving at the hatto, do not forget to tell Doña Clara from me, that I shall expect her here tomorrow; do you hear?"

The monk uttered a cry of terror; without replying, he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and set off at a gallop, in the direction where the Carib was already going, with that quick, elastic step, with which a horse has a difficulty in keeping up.

The two buccaneers watched his flight with a hearty laugh, then, stretching out their feet to the fire, and laying their weapons within reach, they prepared to sleep, guarded by their dogs, vigilant sentries that would not let them be surprised.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CONSEQUENCES OF A MEETING

Fray Arsenio followed his silent guide delightedly, although he was surrendered into the hands of an Indian, who must instinctively hate the Spaniards, those ferocious oppressors of his decimated and almost destroyed race. Still, the monk was glad at having escaped safe and sound from the clutches of the adventurers, whom he feared not only as ladrones, that is to say, men without faith and steeped in vice, but also as demons, or at the least sorcerers in regular connection with Satan, for such were the erroneous ideas which the most enlightened of the Spaniards entertained about the filibusters and buccaneers.

It had needed all the devotion which the monk professed for Doña Clara, and all the ascendancy that charming woman possessed over those who approached her, to make him consent to execute a plan so mad in his opinion, as that of entering into direct relation with one of the most renowned chiefs of the filibusters, and it was with a great tremor that he had accompanied his penitent to Nevis.

When we met him, he was proceeding to the hatto, to inform Doña Clara, as had been arranged between them, of the arrival of the filibustering squadron at Port Margot, and consequently of Montbart's presence in the island of Saint Domingo.

Unfortunately the monk, but little used to night journeys, across untrodden roads which he must guess at every step, lost himself on the savannah; overcome with terror, almost dead with hunger, and worn out by fatigue, the monk had seen the light of a fire flashing a short distance off; the sight of this had restored him hope, if not courage, and he had consequently ridden as fast as he could toward the fire, and tumbled headlong into a boucan of French adventurers.

In doing this, he unconsciously followed the example of the silly moth, which feels itself irresistibly attracted to the candle in which it singes its wings.

More fortunate than these insects, the monk had burned nothing at all; he had rested, eaten and drunk well, and, apart from a very honest terror at finding himself so unexpectedly in such company, he had escaped pretty well, or at least he supposed so, from this great danger, and had even succeeded in obtaining a guide. Everything, then, was for the best, the Lord had not ceased to watch over His servant, and the latter only needed to let himself be guarded by Him. Moreover the monk's confidence was augmented by the taciturn carelessness of his guide who, without uttering a syllable, or even appearing to trouble himself about him the least in the world, walked in front of his horse, crossing the savannah obliquely, making a way through the tall grass, and seemed to direct himself as surely amid the darkness that surrounded him, as if he had been lit by the dazzling sunbeams.

They went on thus for a long time following each other without the interchange of a word; like all the Spaniards, Fray Arsenio professed a profound contempt for the Indians, and it was much against his will that he ever entered into relations with them. For his part, the Carib was not at all anxious to carry on with this man, whom he regarded as a born foe of his race, a conversation which could only be an unimportant gossip.

They had reached the top of a small hill, from which could be seen gleaming in the distance, like so many luminous dots, the watch fires of the soldiers encamped round the hatto, when all at once, instead of descending the hill and continuing his advance, Omopoua stopped, and looked round him anxiously, while strongly inhaling the air, and ordering the Spaniard by a wave of his hand to halt.

The latter obeyed and remained motionless as an equestrian statue, while observing with a curiosity blended with a certain amount of discomfort, the manoeuvres of his guide.

The Carib had laid himself down and was listening with his ear to the ground.

At the end of a few minutes he rose again, though he did not cease listening.

"What is the matter?" the monk, whom this conduct was beginning seriously to alarm, asked.

"Horsemen are coming towards us at full speed."

"Horsemen at this hour of night on the savannah?" Fray Arsenio remarked incredulously; "It is impossible."

"Why, you are here?" the Indian said with a jeering smile.

"Hum! That is true," the monk muttered, struck by the logic of the answer; "who can they be!"

"I do not know, but I will soon tell you," the Carib answered.

And before the monk had the time to ask him what his scheme was, Omopoua glided through the tall grass and disappeared, leaving Fray Arsenio greatly disconcerted at this sudden flight, and extremely annoyed at finding himself thus left alone in the middle of the desert.

A few minutes elapsed, during which the monk tried, though in vain, to hear the sound which the Indian's sharp sense of hearing had caused him to catch long before, amid the confused rumours of the savannah.

The monk, believing himself decidedly deserted by his guide, was preparing to continue his journey, leaving to Providence the care of bringing him safely into port, when he heard a slight rustling in the bushes close to him, and the Indian reappeared.

"I have seen them," he said.

"Ah!" the monk replied; "And who are they?"

"White men like you."

"Spaniards in that case?"

"Yes, Spaniards."

"All the better," Fray Arsenio continued, whom the good news completely reassured; "are they numerous?"

"Five or six at least; they are proceeding like yourself, towards the hatto, where, as far as I could understand, they are very eager to arrive."

"That is famous; where are they at this moment?"

"Two stones' throw at the most. According to the direction they are following, they will pass the spot where you are now standing."

"Better still. In that case we have only to wait."

"You can do so, if you think proper; but I have no wish to meet them."

"That is true, my friend," the monk remarked, with a paternal air. "And possibly such a meeting would not be agreeable to you; so pray accept my thanks for the manner in which you have guided me hitherto."

"You are quite resolved on waiting for them, then? If you like, I can enable you to avoid them."

"I have no motive for concealing myself from men of my own colour. Whoever they may be, I feel sure that I shall find friends in them."

"Very good. Your affairs concern yourself, and I have nothing to do with them. But the sound is drawing nearer, and as they will speedily arrive, I will leave you, for it is unnecessary for them to find me here."

"Farewell."

"One last recommendation: if by chance they had a fancy to ask who served as your guide, do not tell them."

"It is not at all probable they will ask this."

"No matter. Promise me, if they do, to keep my secret."

"Very good. I will be silent, since you wish it; although I do not understand the motive for such a recommendation."

The monk had not finished the sentence, ere the Indian disappeared.

The horsemen were rapidly approaching. The galloping of their steeds echoed on the ground like the rolling of thunder. Suddenly several shadows, scarcely distinguishable in the obscurity, rose as it were in the midst of the darkness, and a sharp voice shouted —

"Who goes there?"

"A friend!" the monk answered.

"Tell your name, ¡sangre de Dios!" the voice repeated, passionately, while the dry snap of a pistol being cocked, sounded disagreeably in the monk's ears. "At night there are friends in the desert!"

"I am a poor Franciscan monk, proceeding to the hatto del Rincón; and my name is Fray Arsenio Mendoza."

A hoarse cry replied to the monk's words – a cry whose meaning he had not the time to conjecture; that is to say, whether it was the result of pleasure or anger; for the horsemen came up with him like lightning, and surrounded him even before he could understand the reason of such a headlong speed to reach him.

"Why, señores," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion, "what is the meaning of this? Have I to do with the ladrones?"

"Good! Good! Calm yourself, Señor Padre," a rough voice answered, which he fancied he recognised. "We are not ladrones, but Spaniards like yourself; and nothing could cause us more pleasure than meeting you at this moment."

"I am delighted at what you say to me, caballero. I confess that at first the suddenness of your movements alarmed me; but now I am completely reassured."

"All the better," the stranger replied, ironically; "for I want to talk with you."

"Talk with me, señor?" he said, with surprise.

"The spot and the hour are badly chosen for an interview, I fancy. If you will wait till we reach the hatto, I will place myself at your disposal."

"Enough talking. Get off your horse," the stranger observed, roughly; "unless you wish me to drag you off."

The monk took a startled glance around him, but the horsemen looked at him savagely, and did not appear disposed to come to his help.

Fray Arsenio, through profession and temperament, was quite the opposite of a brave man. The way in which the adventure began was commencing seriously to alarm him. He did not yet know into what hands he had fallen, but everything led him to suppose that these individuals, whoever they might be, were not actuated by kindly feelings towards him. Still any resistance was impossible, and he resigned himself to obey; but it was not without a sigh of regret, intended for the Carib, whose judicious advice he had spurned, that he at length got off his horse, and placed himself in front of his stern questioner.

"Light a torch!" the strange horseman said. "I wish this man to recognise me, so that, knowing who I am, he may be aware that he cannot employ any subterfuge with me, and that frankness alone will save him from the fate that menaces him."

The monk understood less and less. He really believed himself suffering from an atrocious nightmare.

By the horseman's orders, however, one of his suite had lighted a torch of ocote wood.

So soon as the flame played over the stranger's feature, and illumined his face, the monk gave a start of surprise, and clasped his hands at the same time as his countenance suddenly reassumed its serenity.

"Heaven be praised!" he said, with an accent of beatitude impossible to render. "Is it possible that it can be you, Don. Stenio de Bejar? I was so far from believing that I should have the felicity of meeting you this night, Señor Conde, that, on my faith, I did not recognise you, and felt almost frightened."

The Count, for it was really he whom the monk had so unfortunately met, did not answer for the moment, but contented himself with smiling.

Don Stenio de Bejar, who had left Saint Domingo at full speed, for the purpose of going to the hatto del Rincón, in order to convince himself of the truth of the information given him by Don Antonio de la Ronda, thus found himself, by the greatest accident, just as he was reaching his destination, and when he least expected it, face to face with Fray Arsenio Mendoza; that is to say, with the only man capable of proving to him peremptorily the truth or falsehood of the assertions of the spy, who had denounced Doña Clara to her husband.

Fray Arsenio's reputation for poltroonery had long been current among his countrymen, and hence nothing seemed more easy than to obtain from him the truth in its fullest details.

The Count believed himself almost certain, by employing intimidation, to make Fray Arsenio confess what he knew: hence, so soon as the latter had mentioned his name, Don Stenio, warned by the spy, who rode at his side, resolved to terrify the monk, and thus render it impossible for him to resist the orders he might intimate to him.

We take pleasure in believing that in acting thus, the Count had not the slightest intention of treating the monk with a violence, which in any case would be deplorable, but dishonourable on the part of a man in his position. Unfortunately, through the unforeseen and incomprehensible resistance which, contrary to all probability, the monk offered him, the Count was led away by his passion, and gave orders against his better judgment, when harshness and even cruelty could in no case be justified.

After a silence of some seconds, Don Stenio fixed a piercing glance on the monk, as if he wished to read his very soul, and then seized him brutally by the arm.

"Where have you come from?" he asked him, in a rough voice. "Is it the custom for monks of your order to ramble about the country at this hour of the night?"

"My lord!" Fray Arsenio stammered, thrown off his guard by this question, which he was far from expecting.

"Come, come!" the Count continued; "Answer at once, and let us have no subterfuge or tergiversation."

"But, my lord, I do not at all understand this great anger which you appear to have with me. I am innocent, I vow!"

"Ah! ah!" he said, with an ironical laugh; "You are innocent! ¡Viva Dios! you make haste to defend yourself before you are accused; hence you feel yourself guilty."

Fray Arsenio was aware of the Count's jealousy, which he concealed so poorly, that, in spite of all his efforts, it was visible to everybody. Hence he understood that Doña Clara's secret had been revealed to her husband; and he foresaw the peril that menaced him for having acted as her accomplice. Still, he hoped that the Count had only learnt certain facts, while remaining ignorant of the details of the Countess' voyage; and hence, though he trembled at heart at the thought of the dangers to which he was doubtless exposed, alone and defenceless, in the hands of a man blinded by passion and the desire of avenging what he regarded as a stain on his honour, he resolved, whatever might happen, not to betray the confidence which a woman had unhappily placed in him.

He raised his head and replied with a firm voice, and with an accent at which he was himself astonished —

"My lord, you are governor of Saint Domingo; you have a right to exercise justice over those placed under your rule. You possess almost sovereign power, but you have no right, as far as I know, to ill treat me, either by word or deed, or to make me undergo an examination at your caprice. I have superiors on whom I am dependant; have me taken before them; hand me over to their justice, if I have committed any fault they will punish me, for they alone have the right of condemning or acquitting me."

The Count had listened to the monk's long answer, while biting his lips savagely and stamping his foot with passion. He had not thought to find such resistance in this man.

"So, then," he exclaimed, when Fray Arsenio at length ceased speaking, "you refuse to answer me?"

"I refuse, my lord," he coldly replied, "because you have no right to question me."

"You forget, however, Señor Padre, that if I have not the right, I have the might, at least, at this moment."

"You are at liberty, my lord, to abuse that might, by applying it to an unhappy and defenceless man. I am no soldier, and physical suffering frightens me. I do not know how I shall endure the tortures you will perhaps inflict on me, but there is one thing of which I am certain."

"What is it, may I ask, Señor Padre?"

"That I will die, my lord, before answering any of your questions."

"We shall see that," he said, sarcastically, "if you compel me to have recourse to violence."

"You will see," he replied, in a gentle but firm voice, which denoted an irrevocable determination.

"For the last time, I deign to warn you: take care – reflect."

"All my reflections are made, my lord; I am in your power. Abuse my weakness as you may think proper, I shall not even attempt a useless defence. I shall not be the first monk of my order who has fallen a martyr to duty: others have preceded me, and others will doubtless follow me in this painful track."

The Count stamped his foot savagely; the spectators, dumb and motionless, exchanged terrified glances, for they foresaw that this scene would soon have a terrible denouement, between two men, neither of whom would make concessions; while the first of them, blinded by rage, would soon not be in a condition to listen to the salutary counsels of reason.

"My lord," Don Antonio de la Ronda murmured, "the stars are beginning to turn pale, and the day will soon dawn; we are still far from the hatto, would it not be better to set out without further delay?"

"Silence!" the Count answered, with a smile of contempt. "Pedro," he added, addressing one of his domestics, "a match."

The valet dismounted and advanced with a long sulphured match in his hand.

"The two thumbs," the Count said, laconically.

The domestic approached the monk; the latter offered his hands without hesitation, although his face was fearfully pale, and his whole body trembled.

Pedro coolly rolled the match between his two thumbs, passing it several times under his nails, and then turned to the Count.

"For the last time, monk," the latter said, "will you speak?"

"I have nothing to say to you, my lord," Fray Arsenio replied, in a soft voice.

"Light it," the Count commanded, biting his lips till they bled.

The valet, with the passive obedience distinguishing men of this class, set fire to the match.

The monk fell on his knees and raised his eyes to Heaven. His face had assumed an earthy tint, a cold perspiration beaded on his temples, and his hair stood on end. The suffering he experienced must be horrible, for his chest heaved violently, although his parched lips remained dumb.

The Count watched him anxiously.

"Will you speak now, monk?" he said to him in a hollow voice.

Fray Arsenio turned toward him a face whose features were distorted by pain, and gave him a look full of ineffable gentleness.

"I thank you, my lord," he said, "for having taught me that pain does not exist for a man whose faith is lively."

"My curses on you, wretch!" the Count exclaimed, as he hurled him down with a blow on the chest. "To horse, señores, to horse, so that we may reach the hatto before sunrise."

The cavaliers remounted, and went off at full speed, leaving, without a glance of compassion, the poor monk, who, vanquished by pain, had rolled fainting on the ground.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ORGANIZATION OF THE COLONY

A triple expedition, so serious as that conceived by Montbarts, demanded, for its success, extreme care and precautions.

The few points occupied by the buccaneers on the Spanish isles, did not at all resemble towns; they were agglomerations of houses built without order, according to the liking or caprice of the owner, and occupying a space twenty-fold larger than they should have taken in accordance with the population. Hence, these points were spots almost impossible to defend against a well-combined attack of the Spaniards, if the thought occurred to the latter of finishing once for all with their formidable neighbours.

Port Margot, for instance, the most important point in the French possessions as a strategic position, was only a miserable hamlet, open to all comers, without police or organization, where every language was spoken, and which Spanish spies entered with the greatest facility without incurring a risk of discovery, and thus scented the plans of the filibusters.

Montbarts, before advancing and attacking the Spaniards, whom he correctly suspected of being already acquainted with the motive of his presence on the island, either through Don Antonio de la Ronda, or other spies, and not wishing, when he was preparing to surprise the enemy, to be himself surprised and see his retreat cut off by an unforeseen attack, resolved to shelter Port Margot from a coup de main.