Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

It was as much a slaughter of savages as of colonists. But even if one hundred blacks died for every colonist they killed, the outcome was inevitable. The swarming fecundity of Africa could stand decimation; the colony could not.

The lovingly tilled fields were trampled into mud. The houses erected with so much effort and care went up in smoke and flame. And by handfuls and scores the men, women, and infants of Libertatia went down to death from the arrows and javelins, the spears and warclubs of savages.

Misson soon saw that it was a case of either perish or fly.

Such women and children as were not slaughtered in the surprise of the attack were hurried down to the harbor and crowded on board the Childhood, the Bijou, and the Hope.

Then when fire and foe had laid the colony waste and threatened to sweep the survivors into the sea, Misson and some forty of his fighters, white and black, hurried on board the three remaining sloops and cast off, with Misson in command on board the Bijou.

Caraccioli, crippled though he was, had directed the whites under him in the fight as valiantly as Misson the blacks. Now he took charge of the Childhood in escape. The ships had barely cast off when the savages were down at the water front sending clouds of arrows at them.

Certainly the fates were with the Africans that day. For Caraccioli, who had lost two legs in battle with cannon, who had received several other wounds in the scores of fierce hand-to-hand conflicts on the sea, could reasonably have escaped hurt now that his ship had cleared by some fifty or sixty feet.

But of the thousands of arrows that flew from the shore in pursuit, one found a vital target and lodged in Caraccioli’s throat. He dropped to the deck dead.

Into such panic his death threw the rest of the hastily-organized crew that they bungled the handling of the ship and again headed for the land. In five minutes savages were swarming over its decks.

Helpless to aid them the Bijou and the Hope fled out of the harbor.

Misson’s body, throughout the whole battle, had not received so much as a scratch-. But he had not escaped harm. His followers scarcely recognized in their leader the young man who had seemed so nearly godlike to them.

For he had grown aged in a few hours. Something vital had snapped in him. He who had fired with courage, youth, and vitality every one about him, now crouched like an old woman before a feeble fire.

His splendid spirit had died when he saw Libertatia go up in flame. The continent on which he had hoped to found a new fair world had stamped to death and destruction his great effort and dream. His spirit was dead, as it developed, beyond recovery. And soon after came his merciful release from death-in-life.