Fort Amity

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE RAPIDS.

  They had run the Galops rapids, Point Iroquois, Point Cardinal, theRapide Plat, without disaster though not without heavy toil. Thefury of the falls far exceeded Amherst's expectations, but hebelieved that he had seen the worst, and he blessed the pilotage ofDominique and Bateese Guyon.

  Here and there the heavier bateaux carrying the guns would be warpedor pushed and steadied along shore in the shallow water under thebank, by gangs, to avoid some peril over which the whaleboats rodeeasily; and this not only delayed the flotilla but accounted for theloss of a few men caught at unawares by the edge of the current,swept off their legs, and drowned.

  On the first day of September they ran the Long Saut and floatedacross the still basin of Lake St. Francis. At the foot of the lakethe General landed a company or two of riflemen to dislodge LaCorne's militia; but La Corne was already falling back upon the lowerrapids, and, as it turned out, this redoubtable partisan gave notrouble at all.

  They reached and passed Coteau du Lac on the 3rd.

  Dominique and Bateese steered the two leading whaleboats, setting thecourse for the rest as they had set it all the way down from FortAmitie. By M. Etienne's request, he and his niece and the fewdisabled prisoners from the fort travelled in these two boats under asmall guard. It appeared that the poor gentleman's wits were shaken;he took an innocent pride now in the skill of the two brothers, hisfamily's _censitaires_, and throughout the long days he discoursed onit wearisomely. The siege--his brother's death--Fort Amitie itselfand his two years and more of residence there--seemed to have fadedfrom his mind. He spoke of Boisveyrac as though he had left it but afew hours since.

  "And the General," said he to Diane, "will be interested in seeingthe Seigniory."

  "A sad sight, monsieur!" put in Bateese, overhearing him.(Just before embarking, M. Etienne, Diane and Felicite had beenassigned to Bateese's boat, while Father Launoy, Father Joly and twowounded prisoners travelled in Dominique's.) "A sight to break theheart! We passed it, Dominique and I, on our way to and fromMontreal. Figure to yourself that the corn was standing alreadyover-ripe, and it will be standing yet, though we are in September!"

  "The General will make allowances," answered M. Etienne with gravesimplicity. "He will understand that we have had no time forharvesting of late. Another year--"

  Diane shivered. And yet--was it not better to dote thus, needing nopity, happy as a child, than to live sane and feel the torture?Better perhaps, but best and blessedest to escape the choice as herfather had escaped it! As the river bore her nearer to Boisveyracshe saw his tall figure pacing the familiar shores, pausing to conthe acres that were his and had been his father's and his father'sfather's. She saw and understood that smile of his which had sooften puzzled her as a child when she had peered up into his faceunder its broad-brimmed hat and noted his eyes as they rested on thefields, the clearings, the forest; noted his cheeks reddened withopen-air living; his firm lips touched with pride--the pride of aking treading his undisputed ground. In those days she and Armandhad been something of an enigma to their father, and he to them;their vision tinged and clouded, perhaps, by a drop or two of duskyIndian blood. But now he had suddenly become intelligible to her, anheroic figure, wonderfully simple. She let her memory call uppicture after picture of him--as he sat in the great parlour hearing"cases," dispensing fatherly justice; as he stood up at a marriagefeast to drink the bride's and bridegroom's health and commend theirexample to all the young _habitants_; as he patted the heads of thechildren trooping to their first communion; as he welcomed his_censitaires_ on St. Martin's day, when they poured in with theirrents--wheat, eggs and poultry--the poultry all alive, heels tied,heads down, throats distended and squalling--until the barnyardbecame Babel, and still he went about pinching the fowls' breasts,running the corn through his hands, dispensing a word of praise here,a prescription there, and kindness everywhere. Now bad harvestswould vex him no more, nor the fate of his familiar fields.In the wreck of all he had lived for, his life had stood up clear fora moment, complete in itself and vindicated. And the moment whichhad revealed had also ended it; he lay now beneath the chapelpavement at Fort Amitie, indifferently awaiting judgment, his swordby his side.

  They ran the Cedars and, taking breath on the smooth waters below,steered for the shore where the towers and tall chimneys ofBoisveyrac crept into view, and the long facade of the Seigniory,slowly unfolding itself from the forest.

  Here the leading boats were brought to land while the flotillacollected itself for the next descent. A boat had capsized anddrowned its crew in the Long Saut, and Amherst had learnt the lessonof that accident and thenceforward allowed no straggling. Constantto his rule, too, of leaving no post in his rear until satisfied thatit was harmless, he proposed to inspect the Seigniory, and sent amessage desiring M. Etienne's company--and Mademoiselle's, if togrant this favour would not distress her.

  Diane prayed to be excused; but M. Etienne accepted with alacrity.He had saluted the first glimpse of the homestead with a glad cry,eager as a schoolboy returning for his holidays. He met the Generalon the slope with a gush of apologies. 'He must overlook the unkemptcondition of the fields. . . . Boisveyrac was not wont to make sopoor a show . . . the estate, in fact, though not rich, had alwaysbeen well kept up . . . the stonework was noted throughout NewFrance, and every inch of timber (would M. le General observe?)thoroughly well seasoned. . . . Yes, those were the arms above theentrance--Noel quartering Tilly--two of the oldest families in theprovince . . . If M. le General took an interest in heraldry, theseother quarterings were worth perusal . . . de Repentigny,de Contrecoeur, Traversy, St. Ours, de Valrennes, de la Mothe,d'Ailleboust . . . and the windmill would repay an ascent . . .the view from its summit was magnificent. . . .'

  Diane, seated in the boat and watching, saw him halt and point outthe escutcheons; saw him halt again in the gateway and spread out hisarms to indicate the solidity of the walls; could almost, reading hisgestures, hear the words they explained; and her cheeks burned withshame.

  "A fine estate!" said a voice in the next boat.

  "Yes, indeed," answered Bateese at her elbow; "there is no Seignioryto compare with Boisveyrac. And we will live to welcome you back toit, mademoiselle. The English are no despoilers, they tell me."

  She glanced at Dominique. He had filled a pipe, and, as he smoked,his eyes followed her uncle's gestures placidly. Scorn of him, scornof herself, intolerable shame, rose in a flood together.

  "If my uncle behaves like a _roturier_, it is because his mind isgone. Shall _we_ spy on him and laugh?--ghosts of those who areafraid to die!"

  Father Launoy looked up from his breviary.

  "Mademoiselle is unjust," said he quietly. "To my knowledge, thoseservants of hers, whom she reproaches, have risked death and takenwounds, in part for her sake."

  Diane sat silent, gazing upon the river. Yes, she had been unjust,and she knew it. Felicite had told her how the garrison had rushedafter Dominique to rescue her, and of the struggle in the stairway ofthe tower. Dominique bore an ugly cut, half-healed yet, reachingfrom his right eyebrow across the cheekbone--the gash of an Indianknife. Bateese could steer with his left hand only; his right hecarried in a sling. And the two men lying at this moment by FatherLaunoy's feet had taken their wounds for her sake. Unjust she hadbeen; bitterly unjust. How could she explain the secret of herbitterness--that she despised herself?

  Boats were crowding thick around them now, many of them half filledwith water. The crews, while they baled, had each a separate tale totell of their latest adventure; each, it seemed, had escapeddestruction by a hair's-breadth. The Cedars had been worse even thanthe Long Saut. They laughed and boasted, wringing their clothes.The nearest flung questions at Dominique, at Bateese. The Cascades,they understood, were the worst in the whole chain of rapids, alwaysexcepting the La Chine. But the La Chine were not to be attempted;the army would land above them, at Isle Perrot perhaps, or at thevill
age near the falls, and cover the last nine or ten miles on foot.But what of the Buisson? and of the Roches Fendues?

  More than an hour passed in this clamour, and still the boatscontinued to crowd around. The first-comers, having baled, werelooking to their accoutrements, testing the powder in their flasks,repolishing the locks and barrels of their muskets. "To be sure LaCorne and his militiamen had disappeared, but there was still roomfor a skirmish between this and Lake St. Louis; if he had postedhimself on the bank below, he might prove annoying. The rapids werebad enough without the addition of being fired upon during thedescent, when a man had work enough to hold tight by the gunwale andsay his prayers. Was the General sending a force down to clear LaCorne out?"

  "Diane!"

  A crowd of soldiers had gathered on the bank, shutting out all viewof the Seigniory. Diane, turning at the sound of her uncle's voice,saw the men make way, and caught her breath. He was not alone.He came through the press triumphantly, dragging by the hand anIndian--an Indian who hung back from the river's brink with eyesaverted, fastened on the ground--the man whom, of all men, she mostfeared to meet.

  "Diane, the General has been telling me--this honest fellow--we havebeen most remiss--"

  M. Etienne panted as he picked his steps down the bank. His face wasglowing.

  "--He understands a little French, it seems. I have the General'spermission to give him a seat in our boat. He tells me he is averseto being thanked, but that is nonsense. I insisted on his coming."

  "You have thanked me once already, monsieur," urged John a Cleeve ina voice as low as he could pitch it.

  "But not sufficiently. You hear, Diane?--he speaks French! I wasconfused at the time; I did not gather--"

  She felt Dominique's eyes upon her. Was her face so white then?He must not guess. . . . She held out her hand, commanding her voiceto speak easily, wondering the while at the sound of it.

  "Welcome, my friend. My uncle is right; we have been remiss--"

  Her voice trailed off, as her eyes fell on Father Launoy. He wasstaring, not at her, but at the Indian; curiously at first, then withdawning suspicion.

  Involuntarily she glanced again towards Dominique. He, too, slowlymoved his gaze from her face and fastened it on the Indian.

  He knew. . . . Father Launoy knew. . . . Oh, when would the boatspush off?

  They pushed off and fell into their stations at length, amid almostinterminable shouting of orders and cross-shouting, pulling andbacking of oars. She had stolen one look at Bateese. . . . He didnot suspect . . . but, in the other boat, they knew.

  Her uncle's voice ran on like a brook. She could not look up, forfear of meeting her lover's eyes--yes, her lover's! She was recklessnow. They knew. She would deceive herself no longer. She wasbase--base. He stood close, and in his presence she was glad--fiercely, deliciously, desperately. She, betrayed in all her vows,was glad. The current ran smoothly. If only, beyond the next ledge,might lie annihilation!

  The current ran with an oily smoothness. They were nearing theRoches Fendues. Dominique's boat led.

  A clear voice began to sing, high and loud, in a ringing tenor:

  "Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre: Mironton, mironton, mirontaine . . ."

  At the first note John a Cleeve, glancing swiftly at Bateese, saw hisbody stiffen suddenly with his hand on the tiller; saw his eyestravel forward, seeking his brother's; saw his face whiten.Dominique stood erect, gazing back, challenging. Beyond him Johncaught a glimpse of Father Launoy looking up from his breviary; andthe priest's face, too, was white and fixed.

  Voices in the boats behind began to curse loudly; for "Malbrouck" wasno popular air with the English. But Bateese took up the chant:

  "Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre-- Ne sais quand reviendra!"

  They were swinging past Bout de l'lsle. Already the keel under footwas gathering way. From Bateese, who stood with eyes stiffened nowand inscrutable, John looked down upon Diane. She lifted her facewith a wan smile, but she, too, was listening to the challenge flungback from the leading boat.

  "Il reviendra-z a Paques . . ."

  He flung one glance over his shoulder, and saw the channel dividingahead. Dominique was leaning over, pressing down the helm tostarboard. Over Dominique's arm Father Launoy stared rigidly.Father Joly, as if aware of something amiss, had cast out both handsand was grasping the gunwale. The boat, sucked into the roar of therapids, shot down the left channel--the channel of death.

  "Il reviendra-z a Paques, Ou--a la Trinite!"

  The voice was lost in the roar of the falls, now drumming loud inJohn's ears. He knew nothing of these rapids; but two channels layahead and the choice between them. He leapt across M. Etienne, andhurling Bateese aside, seized the tiller and thrust it hard over,heading for the right.

  Peering back through the spray as he bent he saw the helmsmen asternstaring--hesitating. They had but a second or two in which tochoose. He shouted and shouted again--in English. But the tumblingwaters roared high above his shouts.

  He reached out and gripping Bateese by the collar, forced the tillerinto his hand. Useless now to look back to try to discover how manyboats were following!

  Bateese, with a sob, crept back to the tiller and steered.

  Not until the foot of the falls was reached did John know that theherd had followed him. But forty-six boats had followed Dominique'sfatal lead: and of their crews ninety red-coated corpses tossed withDominique's and the two priests' and spun in the eddies beneath the_Grand Bouilli_.

  At dawn next morning the sentries in Montreal caught sight of themdrifting down past the walls, and carried the news. So New Francelearnt that its hour was near.