Then a storm broke, with rolling
thunder like a salute of cannon. At last on July 27 they sailed into the
narrow channel at the entrance of the harbor of Port Royal.
The flag of France, with its golden lilies on a white ground, gleamed in
the noon sunlight as they came up the bay toward the little group of
wooden buildings in the edge of the forest. Not a man was to be seen on
the silent shore; a birch canoe, with one old Indian in it, hovered near
the landing. A great fear gripped the hearts of Bienville de
Poutrincourt and Marc Lescarbot. Were Pontgrave and Champlain all dead
with their people? Had help come too late?
Then from the bastion of the rude fortifications a cannon barked salute,
and a Frenchman with a gun in his hand came running down to the beach.
The ship's guns returned the salute, and the trumpets sang loud greeting
to whoever might be there to hear.
When they had landed they learned what had happened. There were only two
Frenchmen in the fort; Pontgrave and the others, fearing that the supply
ship would never arrive, had gone twelve days before in two small ships
of their own building to look for some of the French fishing fleet who
might have provisions. The two who remained had volunteered to stay and
guard the buildings and stores.
Pages:
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313