At
length a brigantine worthy of Robinson Crusoe floated on the waters of
the Chenonceau. They laid in what provision they could, gave all that
remained of their goods to the Indians, embarked, descended the river,
and put to sea. A fair wind filled their patchwork sails and bore them
from the hated coast. Day after day they held their course, till at
length the breeze died away and a breathless calm fell on the waters.
Florida was far behind; France farther yet before.
Floating idly on the glassy waste, the craft lay motionless. Their
supplies gave out. Twelve kernels of maize a day were each man's
portion; then the maize failed, and they ate their shoes and leather
jerkins. The water-barrels were drained, and they tried to slake their
thirst with brine. Several died, and the rest, giddy with exhaustion and
crazed with thirst, were forced to ceaseless labor, bailing out the
water that gushed through every seam. Head-winds set in, increasing to a
gale, and the wretched brigantine, with sails close-reefed, tossed among
the savage billows at the mercy of the storm. A heavy sea rolled down
upon her, and burst the bulwarks on the windward side. The surges broke
over her, and, clinging with desperate grip to spars and cordage, the
drenched voyagers gave up all for lost.
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