CHAPTER XXI
HOW THE PIRATES CAME
Inside our Habitation all was the confusion of preparation for leavingthe bay. Outside, the Indians held high carnival; for Allemand, thegin-soaked pilot, was busy passing drink through the loopholes to apandemonium of savages raving outside the stockades. 'Tis not a prettypicture, that memory of white-men besotting the Indian; but I must evenset down the facts as they are, bidding you to remember that the whitetrader who besotted the Indian was the same white trader who befriendedall tribes alike when the hunt failed and the famine came. LaChesnaye, the merchant prince, it was, who managed this lowtrafficking. Indeed, for the rubbing together of more doubloons in hismoney-bags I think that La Chesnaye's servile nature would havebargained to send souls in job lots blindfold over the gangplank. But,as La Chesnaye said when Pierre Radisson remonstrated against theknavery, the gin was nine parts rain-water.
"The more cheat, you, to lay such unction to your conscience," says M.de Radisson. "Be an honest knave, La Chesnaye!"
Foret, the marquis, stalked up and down before the gate with two guardsat his heels. All day long birch canoes and log dugouts and tubbypirogues and crazy rafts of loose-lashed pine logs drifted to ourwater-front with bands of squalid Indians bringing their pelts. Skintepees rose outside our palisades like an army of mushrooms. Nakedbrats with wisps of hair coarse as a horse's mane crawled over ourmounted cannon, or scudded between our feet like pups, or felt ourEuropean clothes with impudent wonder. Young girls having hairplastered flat with bear's grease stood peeping shyly from tent flaps.Old squaws with skin withered to a parchment hung over the campfires,cooking. And at the loopholes pressed the braves and the bucks and thechief men exchanging beaver-skins for old iron, or a silver fox for adrink of gin, or ermine enough to make His Majesty's coronation robefor some flashy trinket to trick out a vain squaw. From dawn to duskran the patter of moccasined feet, man after man toiling up fromriver-front to fort gate with bundles of peltries on his back and acarrying strap across his brow.
Unarmed, among the savages, pacifying drunken hostiles at thewater-front, bidding Jean and me look after the carriers, in thegateway, helping Sieur de Groseillers to sort the furs--Pierre Radissonwas everywhere. In the guard-house were more English prisoners than wehad crews of French; and in the mess-room sat Governor Brigdar of theHudson's Bay Company, who took his captivity mighty ill and grewprodigious pot-valiant over his cups. Here, too, lolled Ben Gillam,the young New Englander, rumbling out a drunken vengeance against thoseinland pirates, who had deprived him of the season's furs.
Once, I mind, when M. Radisson came suddenly on these two worthies,their fuddled heads were close together above the table.
"Look you," Ben was saying in a big, rasping whisper, "I shot him--Ishot him with a brass button. The black arts are powerless agen brass.Devil sink my soul if I didn't shoot him! The red--spattered over thebrush----"
M. Radisson raised a hand to silence my coming.
Ben's nose poked across the table, closer to Governor Brigdar's ear.
"But look you, Mister What's-y-er-name," says he.
"Don't you Mister me, you young cub!" interrupts the governor with apompous show of drunken dignity.
"A fig for Your Excellency," cries the young blackguard. "Who's whowhen he's drunk? As I was a-telling, look you, though the redspattered the bushes, when I run up he'd vanished into air with a flasho' powder from my musket! 'Twas by the black arts that nigh hanged himin Boston Town----"
At that, Governor Brigdar claps his hand to the table and swears thathe cares nothing for black arts if only the furs can be found.
"The furs--aye," husks Ben, "if we can only find the furs! An our menhold together, we're two to one agen the Frenchies----"
"Ha," says M. Radisson. "Give you good-morning, gentlemen, and I hopeyou find yourselves in health."
The two heads flew apart like the halves of a burst cannon-shell.Thereafter, Radisson kept Ben and Governor Brigdar apart.
Of Godefroy and Jack Battle we could learn naught. Le Borgne wouldnever tell what he and M. Picot had seen that night they rescued mefrom the hill. Whether Le Borgne and the hostiles of the massacre liedor no, they both told the same story of Jack. While the tribe wasstill engaged in the scalp-dance, some one had untied Jack's bands.When the braves went to torture their captive, he had escaped. Butwhither had he gone that he had not come back to us? Like the sea isthe northland, full of nameless graves; and after sending scouts farand wide, we gave up all hope of finding the sailor lad.
But in the fort was another whose presence our rough fellows likened toa star flower on the stained ground of some hard-fought battle. AfterM. Radisson had quieted turbulent spirits by a reading of holy lessons,Mistress Hortense queened it over our table of a Sunday at noon.Waiting upon her at either hand were the blackamoor and the negress. Asoldier in red stood guard behind; and every man, officer, and commonerdown the long mess-table tuned his manners to the pure grace of herfair face.
What a hushing of voices and cleansing of wits and disusing of oathswas there after my little lady came to our rough Habitation!
I mind the first Sunday M. Radisson led her out like a queen to themess-room table. When our voyageurs went upstream for M. Picot'shidden furs, her story had got noised about the fort. Officers,soldiers, and sailors had seated themselves at the long benches oneither side the table; but M. Radisson's place was empty and a sort ofthrone chair had been extemporized at the head of the table. An angryquestion went from group to group to know if M. Radisson designed suchplace of honour for the two leaders of our prisoners--under lock in theguard-room. M. de Groseillers only laughed and bade the fellowscontain their souls and stomachs in patience. A moment later, the doorto the quarters where Hortense lived was thrown open by a red-coatedsoldier, and out stepped M. Radisson leading Hortense by the tips ofher dainty fingers, the ebon faces of the two blackamoors grinningdelight behind.
You could have heard a pin fall among our fellows. Then there was anoise of armour clanking to the floor. Every man unconsciously took tothrowing his pistol under the table, flinging sword-belt down andhiding daggers below benches. Of a sudden, the surprise went to theirheads.
"Gentlemen," began M. Radisson.
But the fellows would have none of his grand speeches. With a cheerthat set the rafters ringing, they were on their feet; and to MistressHortense's face came a look that does more for the making of men thanall New England's laws or my uncle's blasphemy boxes or King Charles'sdragoons. You ask what that look was? Go to, with your teasings! Alover is not to be asked his whys! I ask you in return why you likethe spire of a cathedral pointing up instead of down; or why the museslift souls heavenward? Indeed, of all the fine arts granted the humanrace to lead men's thoughts above the sordid brutalities of living,methinks woman is the finest; for God's own hand fashioned her, and shewas the last crowning piece of all His week's doings. The finest artsare the easiest spoiled, as you know very well; and if you demand howMistress Hortense could escape harm amid all the wickedness of thatwilderness, I answer it is a thing that your townsfolk cannot know.
It is of the wilderness.
The wilderness is a foster-mother that teacheth hard, strangeparadoxes. The first is _the sin of being weak_; and the second isthat _death is the least of life's harms_.
Wrapped in those furs for which he had staked his life like many agamester of the wilderness, M. Picot lay buried in that sandy stretchoutside the cave door. Turning to lead Hortense away before Le Borgneand the blackamoor began filling the grave, I found her stonily silentand tearless.
But it was she who led me.
Scrambling up the hillside like a chamois of the mountains, she flittedlightly through the greening to a small open where campers had builtnight fires. Her quick glance ran from tree to tree. Some wood-runnerhad blazed a trail by notching the bark. Pausing, she turned with thefrank, fearless look of the wilderness woman. She was no longer theelusive Hortense
of secluded life. A change had come--the change ofthe hothouse plant set out to the bufferings of the four winds ofheaven to perish from weakness or gather strength from hardship. Yourwoman of older lands must hood fair eyes, perforce, lest evil maskingunder other eyes give wrong intent to candour; but in the wildernesseach life stands stripped of pretence, honestly good or evil, bare atwhat it is; and purity clear as the noonday sun needs no trick ofcustom to make it plainer.
"Is not this the place?" she asked.
Looking closer, from shrub to open, I recognised the ground of thatnight attack in the woods.
"Hortense, then it was you that I saw at the fire with the others?"
She nodded assent. She had not uttered one word to explain how shecame to that wild land; nor had I asked.
"It was you who pleaded for my life in the cave below my feet?"
"I did not know you had heard! I only sent Le Borgne to bring youback!"
"I hid as he passed."
"But I sent a message to the fort----"
"Not to be bitten by the same dog twice--I thought that meant to keepaway?"
"What?" asked Hortense, passing her hand over her eyes. "Was that themessage he gave you? Then monsieur had bribed him! I sent for you tocome to us. Oh, that is the reason you never came----"
"And that is the reason you have hidden from me all the year and neversent me word?"
"I thought--I thought--" She turned away. "Ben Gillam told monsieuryou had left Boston on our account----"
"And you thought I wanted to avoid you----"
"I did not blame you," she said. "Indeed, indeed, I was veryweak--monsieur must have bribed Le Borgne--I sent word again andagain--but you never answered!"
"How could you misunderstand--O Hortense, after that night in thehunting-room, how could you believe so poorly of me!"
She gave a low laugh. "That's what your good angel used to plead," shesaid.
"Good angel, indeed!" said I, memory of the vows to that miscreantadventurer fading. "That good angel was a lazy baggage! She shouldhave compelled you to believe!"
"Oh--she did," says Hortense quickly. "The poor thing kept telling meand telling me to trust you till I--"
"Till you what, Hortense?"
She did not answer at once.
"Monsieur and the blackamoor and I had gone to the upper river watchingfor the expected boats----"
"Hortense, were you the white figure behind the bush that night we werespying on the Prince Rupert!"
"Yes," she said, "and you pointed your gun at me!"
I was too dumfounded for words. Then a suspicion flashed to my mind."Who sent Le Borgne for us in the storm, Hortense?"
"Oh," says Hortense, "that was nothing! Monsieur pretended that hethought you were caribou. He wanted to shoot. Oh," she said, "oh, howI have hated him! To think--to think that he would shoot when youhelped us in Boston!"
"Hortense, who sent Le Borgne and M. Picot to save me from the wolves?"
"Oh," says Hortense bravely, with a shudder between the words, "thatwas--that was nothing--I mean--one would do as much foranybody--for--for--for a poor little stoat, or--or--a caribou if thewolves were after it!"
And we laughed with the tears in our eyes. And all the while that vowto the dying adventurer was ringing like a faint death toll to hope. Iremember trying to speak a gratitude too deep for words.
"Can--I ever--ever repay you--Hortense?" I was asking.
"Repay!" she said with a little bitter laugh. "Oh! I hate that wordrepay! I hate all give-and-take and so-much-given-for-so-much-got!"Then turning to me with her face aflame: "I am--I am--oh--why can't youunderstand?" she asked.
And then--and then--there was a wordless cry--her arms reached out inmute appeal--there was no need of speech.
The forest shone green and gold in the sunlight. The wind rustled pastlike a springtime presence, a presence that set all the pines swayingand the aspens aquiver with music of flower legend and new birth andthe joy of life. There was a long silence; and in that silence thepulsing of the mighty forces that lift mortals to immortality.
Then a voice which only speaks when love speaks through the voice wassaying, "Do you remember your dreams?"
"What?" stooping to cull some violets that had looked well against thegreen of her hunting-suit.
"'Blind gods of chance--blind gods of chance'--you used to say thatover and over!"
"Ah, M. Radisson taught me that! God bless the blind gods ofchance--Hortense teaches me that; for"--giving her back her ownwords--"you are here--you are here--you are here with me! God blessthe gods of chance!"
"Oh," she cried, "were you not asleep? Monsieur let me watch after youhad taken the sleeping drug."
"The stars fight for us in their courses," said I, handing up theviolets.
"Ramsay," she asked with a sudden look straight through my eyes, "whatdid he make you promise when--when--he was dying?"
The question brought me up like a sail hauled short. And when I toldher, she uttered strange reproaches.
"Why--why did you promise that?" she asked. "It has always been hismad dream. And when I told him I did not want to be restored, that Iwanted to be like Rebecca and Jack and you and the rest, he called me alittle fool and bade me understand that he had not poisoned me as hewas paid to do because it was to his advantage to keep me alive.Courtiers would not assassinate a stray waif, he said; there was wealthfor the court's ward somewhere; and when I was restored, I was toremember who had slaved for me. Indeed, indeed, I think that he wouldhave married me, but that he feared it would bar him from any propertyas a king's ward----"
"Is that all you know?"
"That is all. Why--why--did you promise?"
"What else was there to do, Hortense? You can't stay in thiswilderness."
"Oh, yes," says Hortense wearily, and she let the violets fall."What--what else was there to do?"
She led the way back to the cave.
"You have not asked me how we came here," she began with visible effort.
"Tell me no more than you wish me to know!"
"Perhaps you remember a New Amsterdam gentleman and a page boy leavingBoston on the Prince Rupert?"
"Perhaps," said I.
"Captain Gillam of the Prince Rupert signalled to his son outside theharbour. Monsieur had been bargaining with Ben all winter. Ben tookus to the north with Le Borgne for interpreter----"
"Does Ben know you are here?"
"Not as Hortense! I was dressed as a page. Then Le Borgne told us ofthis cave and monsieur plotted to lead the Indians against Ben, capturethe fort and ship, and sail away with all the furs for himself. Oh,how I have hated him!" she exclaimed with a sudden impetuous stamp.
Leaving her with the slaves, I took Le Borgne with me to theHabitation. Here, I told all to M. Radisson. And his quick mindseized this, too, for advantage.
"Precious pearls," he exclaims, "but 'tis a gift of the gods!"
"Sir?"
"Pardieu, Chouart; listen to this," and he tells his kinsman,Groseillers.
"Why not?" asks Groseillers. "You mean to send her to Mary Kirke?"
Mary Kirke was Pierre Radisson's wife, who would not leave the Englishto go to him when he had deserted England for France.
"Sir John Kirke is director of the English Company now. He hath beenknighted by King Charles. Mary and Sir John will present this littlemaid at the English court. An she be not a nine days' wonder there, myname is not Pierre Radisson. If she's a court ward, some of the crewmust take care of her."
Groseillers smiled. "An the French reward us not well for thiswinter's work, that little maid may open a door back to England; eh,kinsman?"
'Twas the same gamestering spirit carrying them through all hazard thatnow led them to prepare for fresh partnership, lest France playedfalse. And as history tells, France played very false indeed.
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