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Updated: June 15, 2025
"We will now march to Captain Cartier," said De Verne, "and he shall give us our further orders." "You are looking for your friends, Captain?" spoke up a French soldier in the trench, in his own tongue. "Captain Ribaut has taken them west along the line." "Thank you. If they return, you will tell them where I have gone." By this time the German colonel was cursing volubly.
In brief but courteous terms, it required him to resign his command, and requested his return to France to clear his name from the imputations cast upon it. Ribaut warmly urged him to remain; but Laudonniere declined his friendly proposals. Worn in body and mind, mortified and wounded, he soon fell ill again.
"Are you Catholics or Lutherans?" he demanded of his prisoners, bound two and two before him. "We all belong to the Reformed faith," replied John Ribaut; and he intoned in a loud voice a psalm: "Dust we are, and to dust we shall return; twenty years more or less upon this earth are of small account;" and, turning towards the adelantado, "Do thy will," he said.
The returning day showed to their astonished eyes all the ships of Ribaut, their decks black with men, hovering off the entrance of the port; but Heaven had them in its charge, and again they experienced its protecting care.
But no sooner had Ribaut and his party laid down their arms than they were set upon by the Spaniards, and slaughtered to a man. When Laudoniere and the surviving colonists returned to France and told their sad tale, most of their countrymen only shrugged their shoulders, declaring that it was a fate Huguenots well merited, and the government declined to take any steps to punish the murderers.
As a youth he had fought under Conde in the religious wars, but had followed Jean Ribaut to Florida, and had been one of the few survivors when the Spaniards sacked St. Caroline. With de Gourgues he had sailed west again for vengeance, and had got it.
The little company was made up of young nobles, sailors, merchants and artisans. There were no farmers or peasants among them, and when they had finished their fort none of them thought of clearing the land and sowing corn. There was no need: Ribaut would soon return, they thought, bringing with him all they required.
Nearly opposite was anchored a small vessel, called the "Pearl," commanded by Jacques Ribaut, son of the Admiral. The ferocious soldiery, maddened with victory and drunk with blood, crowded to the water's edge, shouting insults to those on board, mangling the corpses, tearing out their eyes, and throwing them towards the vessel from the points of their daggers.
This murder-loving race looked with great respect on Menendez for his wholesale butchery of the night before, an exploit rarely equalled in their own annals of massacre. On his part, he doubted not that Ribaut was at hand.
I may be wrong to feel any suspicions, but is it possible " "Wait!" interposed Captain Ribaut quickly, and stepped into the traverse at the left. He came back with two French soldiers. These started down the trench, pouncing upon Private Berger. With them was Captain Ribaut. "Oh, you scoundrel, Berger!" suddenly hissed the French captain.
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