The Black Wolf's Breed

by Harris Dickson

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE FALL OF PENSACOLA

  I slipped down the anchor chain without noise into the throbbing sea,and swam ashore to a point some three or four cable lengths away.Guided by the single voice which still sang of war, of glory and ofdeath, I pushed easily into the ring of hideously painted savages whosurrounded the singer. To unaccustomed eyes this would have been afearful sight.

  Two hundred warriors sat motionless as bronze idols about their chief;two hundred naked bodies glinted back the pine knot's fitful glow. Inthe center of this threatening circle moved Tuskahoma, two greatcrimson blotches upon his cheeks, treading that weird suggestivemeasure the Indians knew so well. Round and round a little pine-tree,shorn of its branches and striped with red, he crept, danced and sang.His words came wild and irregular, a sort of rhythmic medley, now softand low as the murmur of the summer ocean, now thrilling every ear bytheir sudden ferocity and fearful energy. Now it was the gentlelullaby, the mother's crooning, the laughter of a child; again, thebursting of the tempest, the lightning's flash, the thunder's rumblingroar.

  His arms raised to heaven like some gaunt priest of butchery, heinvoked the mighty Manitou of his tribe, then dropping prone upon theground he crawled, a sinuous serpent, among the trees.

  For awhile his listeners wandered away upon their chieftain's words tothe waiting ones at home, to hunting grounds of peace and plenty;melodious as a maiden's sigh that song breathed of love and lover'shopes, it wailed for departed friends, extolled their virtues, andcalled down heaven's curses upon the coward of tomorrow's fight. Thenthe fierce gleam of shining steel, one wild war-whoop and all again wasstill. His words faded away in the echoless night till a holy hushbrooded o'er beach and forest.

  Then the solitary dancer wound about the ring as the crouching panthersteals upon her prey, while peal after peal came the frightful cries ofbarbaric conflict, the shrieks of the wounded--a wild, victorious shoutblended with a hopeless dying scream.

  With a master's touch he played upon their vibrant feelings; not a keyof human emotion he left unsounded fame, pride, hate, love anddeath--his song expressed them all.

  Thoroughly frenzied, warrior after warrior now began to join him in thering; voice after voice caught up the dread refrain which terrorizedthe trained soldiery of Europe and filled their imaginations with thenameless horrors of unrelenting war.

  High above the din Tuskahoma lifted now his ferocious battle cry;advancing upon the blazed sapling he sank his tomahawk deep into thesoft white wood, then moved swiftly out of the circle to his own fire.This was the act by which he announced his assumption of supremeauthority.

  Frantic with excitement the unleashed throng rushed upon this fanciedenemy, and soon but the mangled fragments and the roots marked where ithad stood.

  And the forest slumbered and the sentry paced his lonely path.

  It is not my purpose to speak in detail of those matters of historywhich have been so much better described by men of learning. I wouldmerely mention in passing such smaller affairs as relate directly to myown narrative.

  Short and sharp was the conflict which, under God, gave our arms thevictory at Pensacola. Swarming over the palisades or boldly tearingthem down, the Choctaws, led by Tuskahoma, swept the Spaniards fromtheir works. It so happened that Tuskahoma and I mounted thefortifications together. As I essayed to drop down upon the inside mysword belt caught upon the top of a picket, leaving me dangling in midair, an easy prey to those below had they only noticed my plight.Tuskahoma paused to sever the belt with his knife, and by this accidentI was first within the Spanish works, sword and pistol in hand. Soon ahundred were by my side.

  The Spanish troops, inured to civilized warfare, could not stand beforethese yelling demons, springing here and there elusive as phantoms,wielding torch and tomahawk with deadly effect.

  In the very forefront, shoulder to shoulder, with a laugh and a parry,a lunge and a jest, fought the Chevalier de la Mora. Merry as a lad atplay, resolute and quick, I could but stop betimes to wonder at thefellow. Gallant, gay and debonnair, he sang a rippling little air fromsoft Provence, and whirled his blade with such dainty skill that eventhe stoical Indians gazed in awe upon the laughing cavalier. Fightingthrough a bye-street, he met, steel to steel, a Spanish gentleman,within the sweep of whose sword lay half a dozen of our good fellows.

  De la Mora glanced at this silent tribute to the Spaniard's prowess;his face lighted up with a soldier's joy. He planted one footstaunchly across a prostrate corpse, and right jauntily rang out thehissing music of their steel. Instinctively I paused to watch, and asinstinctively understood that though pressed to his best, de la Moradesired to be left alone. Verily it was a gentleman's fight, and noodds, for love and glory's sake, though the Spaniard might have had awhit the better. As I fought on, I heard the swift hurtle of a flyingknife, and saw the Spaniard drop his sword. De la Mora glanced roundwith indignant eyes to the Choctaw who had made the cast, now lookingfor approval from this gentleman who sang like a woman and fought likea fiend. The Chevalier was like to have wreaked summary vengeance forstriking so foul a blow. Through the press I could see him go up tohis late adversary, bare-headed and courteous, to extricate him fromthe motley, bleeding group wherein he had fallen. Throwing hispowerful shoulder against a door, he broke it down, and tenderlycarried the wounded gentleman within. I could then see him quietlystanding guard at the door, waiting for the turmoil to cease, for itwas then quite evident that the day was ours.

  Already the Choctaws were busy tearing the reeking scalps from theliving and the dead. De la Mora's face grew deathly pale at the sight;his cheeks did play the woman, and one might deem him my lady's dapperpage, catching his maiden whiff of blood. This generous act kept himfrom being in at the close of the fray, and robbed him of the greatermeed of glory which he might have thereby won. Twice that day, as hestruck down a pike aimed at my breast, did he make me to feel in myheart like a lying thief--I, who was weak enough to imagine hisdishonor.

  Just at the last there was a trifling incident occurred which my ladsinsisted was greatly to my credit. News of this was carried straightto the Governor, and much was made thereof.

  Bienville, with his Frenchmen, battered down the gates, and before manyminutes the proud Castilian pennon lowered to the milk-white flag ofFrance. On sea and land were we alike successful.

  An hour after Pensacola fell, the Spanish ships struck their colors toChampmeslin. Our greatest loss was the total destruction of theSeamew, blown up by a red-hot shot, which fell in her powder magazine.

  At the surrender I caught my old commander's eye. He motioned me todraw nearer. I obeyed most reluctantly, for I expected a stern rebukefrom the rugged soldier who never forgave the slightest deviation fromhis orders. Instead, Bienville overwhelmed me with praise. He graspedmy hand, and spoke loud enough for all the troops to hear:

  "Before our assembled armies I am proud to acknowledge your share inFrance's triumph this day; proud and grateful for your fidelity atVersailles and Paris. Your example of loyalty and courage is oneworthy to be emulated by all the sons of France. The King shall haveyour name for further recognition."

  This was a great deal for Bienville to say, especially at such a time.My own lips were dumb.

  "Take your proper place, sir."

  And mechanically I walked to the head of my cheering guards. I wasamazed. And Serigny? Had he made up his mind to overlook mydefection? Had the Governor forgiven my failure to return in leDauphin? Surely not. The noble voice of Bienville broke into mypuzzled thought:

  "Captain de Mouret, you will receive the surrender of Don Alphonso, ourknightly and courteous foe."

  It thrilled me with pride that I should receive so famous a sword, forknightlier foeman than Alphonso never trod a deck nor tossed hisgauntlet in the lists. I stepped forward to the Spanish lines wheretheir vanquished admiral tendered me the insignia of his command, whenon a sudden thought I put back the proffered sword, assuring him sonobl
e a soldier ought never to stand disarmed, and no hand but hisshould touch that valiant blade. My delighted lads cheered again likemad, and Bienville himself seemed much pleased at my courtesy.

  "Bravo! Placide," he exclaimed, clapping his hands, his rugged faceaglow with martial joy. His countenance changed, however, when his eyefell upon the cringing figure of Matamora, the commandant of perfidiousmemory.

  "You, too, Matamora? What, not yet killed! Hast saved thy preciousskin again? More's the pity. And do you think to merit the respectaccorded manhood and good faith? By the name of honor, no. Here boy,"and he beckoned to the negro slave who stood at his elbow, "do you takeyon dishonored weapon and break it before the troops."

  And Matamora, full glad to escape with life and limb, willingly yieldedup his sword to the black who snapped it under his foot, obedient toBienville's nod, then cast the tainted pieces from him.

  Upon the long march to Biloxi, de la Mora was the life of the command,and drew to our camp fire every straggler who could make a fair excuseto come. He knew good songs, and he sang them well; he knew goodcheer, and he kept us all in radiant spirits. All, save myself. I wasbitterly dejected.

  "Cheer up, lad," he'd say, "What ails you? One would think you'd metreverse, instead of winning glory and promotion. It was a brave day,and bravely you did bear yourself. Would that Jerome could see."

  But the consciousness of dishonor had torn elation from my soul,though, God knows, it had before been stainless in thought or deed.

  "We'll have many sweet and tranquil hours at Biloxi when days of peaceare come. My cottage can be your home after the barracks no longerclaim your care. Agnes is the sweetest of wives; her little sister,too, a child, but fair, and clever too, beyond her years."

  Verily I cared nothing for a baby sister. But Agnes?

  He repeated his invitation to their cottage many times, and mentally Iprayed, "O God, lead not Thy children into temptation."

  When we had settled down again at Biloxi, for days I remained to myselfin the barracks, and saw no one, making pretense of being busy amongstmy men.

  De la Mora rallied me upon my ungallant conduct, in denying to theladies the sight of so famous a soldier.

  I had now firmly determined to make it necessary to be away from thepost for a season, either in campaign with the Choctaws against theNatchez, or by taking part in the coming siege of Havana. Any pretextto get away. Anything but the truth.