Adventures of Radisson

by Fournier, Martin

  “A little,” he replied.

  Delighted, the man continued in his mother tongue.

  “Want to go back to Trois-Rivières?” he asked. “I know the way. It’ll be easy if there are two of us. What do you say?”

  Taken aback by a proposal that came completely out of the blue, in a language that reminded him terribly of Trois-Rivières, Radisson was speechless.

  “Do you understand me?” the man continued, repeating his question and this time motioning with his hands. “You,” he pointed to Radisson. “Go back to Trois-Rivières with me.” He touched his chest. “Trois-Rivières.” He held up three fingers. “You and me together.” He wrapped one finger around the other. “What do you say?”

  Radisson nodded to show he understood the question. But the Algonquin’s eyes lit up immediately. In his mind Radisson had just said yes.

  “Here’s my plan,” the Algonquin went on. “We’ll bump off your three companions in their sleep, then make a run for my canoe, which is hidden close by. What do you say?”

  Radisson shook his head violently, but the Algonquin wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  “The Iroquois hate the French! Sooner or later they’ll kill you! I’m your only way out! Do what I say and everything will be fine! Let’s go. Your friends will be getting suspicious.”

  Radisson was rattled. He tried to convince himself that he had misunderstood. But he knew enough Algonquin to understand that this man wanted to kill his companions and run off with him to Trois-Rivières. TROIS-RIVIÈRES! His head seemed to explode at the very thought of it. His sisters, his friends, his language, and the stockade he should never have left. He was giddy at the very prospect. But he didn’t want to kill his companions, especially not Serontatié, his friend. What was he to do? His stomach was tying itself in knots. His belly was so sore he had to bend over. And yet he couldn’t give anything away in case his companions suspected they might be in danger. If they did, they would kill him.

  Radisson was in over his head. How he would have loved to talk it over with the Algonquin and find some other way. Wait until the next day at least. Come up with another plan. But they dared not mention anything in front of the three Iroquois. Radisson did not know what to do. If he wandered off with the man again on his own, his companions would definitely know something was up. He felt trapped; a downcast look came over his face. Afraid that his plan would be found out, the Algonquin started to worry and began talking non-stop to the three Iroquois to create a diversion. He asked them about their favourite weapons, when they started hunting, about their families, their village. The discussion was going fine until the Algonquin turned to Radisson and asked him in Algonquin when he learned to hunt. Téganissorens jumped angrily to his feet.

  “What did you ask him?” he shouted.

  “I asked him when he learned to hunt,” the Algonquin replied calmly, this time in Iroquois.

  “And why are you talking to him in your language?”

  “He speaks Algonquin and I wanted to talk to him in my own language, that’s all,” the Algonquin said nonchalantly.

  “You’re an Iroquois now! So speak Iroquois like the rest of us! Got it?”

  Now that he was sure the three youngsters could not understand him, he said one last thing to Radisson in his mother tongue, as blandly as possible.

  “Quit moping around like that! They’ll think we’re up to something. Make an effort. Smile.”

  “Stop it!” Téganissorens snapped. “You’re both Iroquois and you will speak Iroquois! Otherwise you will be treated as enemies! I’m not going to say it a third time!”

  “Fine, fine,” the Algonquin replied. “I was just telling him we’ll have to stop speaking Algonquin to each other. It’s over. Calm down.”

  The matter was settled. The five men let the fire die down and sleep began to get the better of Radisson’s companions, who didn’t suspect a thing. Before turning in, the Algonquin found a way to encourage his accomplice, who still looked distraught.

  “Get plenty of rest,” he told Radisson in Iroquois. “Tomorrow we’ll head east, out to where the Dutch are. It’s a long way, but it’ll be worth it. I’ll take you to the best hunting ground in the whole world. You’ll be happy and your friends will have all the time they need to rest. Don’t worry.”

  But panic swept over Radisson. On the one hand, he dreamed of seeing Marguerite and his friends in Trois-Rivières again, of eating the French bread he had always eaten in Trois-Rivières and Paris. He could already smell the pots simmering over the hearth, could hear everyone chattering away— in French —around the table. On the other hand, the price to be paid was exorbitant: he would have to kill Serontatié, who had never done him any harm, as well as his two companions. It was a dreadful situation. How was he possibly going to get out of it?

  Everyone was asleep except Radisson. He couldn’t very well expose the Algonquin: he had such a way with words. In two seconds flat, he’d have convinced Téganissorens that Radisson was plotting to kill his Iroquois brothers and run away. Denouncing him would bring certain death. He cursed the Algonquin for pushing him so hard. Radisson would have much preferred to wait for the right moment, the next day or perhaps the day after next. He would have liked to wake the Algonquin up to talk things over and change their plan, but he stayed where he was since his Iroquois companions weren’t yet sleeping soundly. He would have to bide his time. He reassured himself, stroking Bo, who was dozing now by his side. Only the moon and the stars cast their feeble light over the forest. Radisson finally fell into a deep sleep.

  A hand touched Radisson on the shoulder and he awoke with a start. The Algonquin motioned to him to get to his feet, handing him a tomahawk. He pointed to Serontatié’s prostrate body, motioning for him to kill him. Radisson didn’t even have time to protest: the Algonquin had already smashed his tomahawk over Otreouti’s head from point-blank range. His brain exploded over their legs. Bo began to howl. The two other Iroquois jumped to their feet to defend themselves and the Algonquin struck Téganissorens’ head with the butt of his musket. The young man collapsed in a heap. But Radisson was paralyzed. He couldn’t kill his friend. Serontatié rushed at him, knife in hand, and only just missed him as Radisson’s reflexes kicked in at the very last second and he ducked to avoid the fatal blow. He wheeled around and planted his tomahawk in Serontatié’s skull. The Iroquois gave out a long groan, wobbled, and fell to the ground. The Algonquin picked up his bag, shouting at Radisson to hurry. Bo was barking and growling fiercely.

  Radisson tried to do as he ordered, but his tomahawk was stuck in his friend’s skull. He didn’t want to leave it there. It was too horrible, too cruel. He had to pull it out. But, try as he might, it wouldn’t budge. Radisson planted his foot on Serontatié’s bloody face and pulled with all his strength! At last it gave way, and Radisson almost fell backward with the effort. Completely overcome by the turn events had taken, he slid his blood-covered tomahawk into his belt and caught up with his accomplice. He quickly gathered up his bag and musket, and called his dog. But the Algonquin wouldn’t hear of bringing him along. “Filthy beast!” he shouted, flinging a stone in its direction. Radisson called him again. “Here, Bo! Come with me, boy!” But the Algonquin slapped him across the face: “Are you nuts?” he cried. “Your dog’s staying put! If we take it with us, the Iroquois will hear the barking from miles around. They’ll catch up with us in no time. You really want to die? Now follow me and do what I tell you!” Radisson was broken-hearted. But now that his life was in the hands of this stranger, there was nothing for it but to do as he said.

  At first light, they reached the spot where the Algonquin’s canoe lay hidden. They threw it into the water and started paddling as fast as they could. In the pale light of the new day, Bo followed them from afar, barking at them from the shore, as if to say, “Take me with you, Radisson!” Distraught, the young Frenchman looked back for an instant and watched his dear companion disappear forever.

  RADISSON WAS CONVINCED t
he Iroquois were hot on their heels and would slaughter them at any moment. He paddled with the energy born of desperation. They needed to get as far away as they could, as quickly as they could. The Algonquin didn’t even want to stop when night came. At first light the next day, after twenty-four hours of uninterrupted exertion, they finally set foot on dry land. After carefully hiding the canoe, they took refuge in the woods to rest for the day. The stop gave Radisson time to think over everything that had just happened to him: another tragic event.

  The Algonquin, who was called Negamabat, laid out the rules for the entire journey: they would travel only at night and rest during the day, when they would hide from the Iroquois in the woods. They must not talk during the day, but could whisper to each other, only when strictly necessary, at night.

  Radisson felt betrayed. He now understood that Negamabat used him to make his getaway, used his youthful strength and endurance, because alone Negamabat could never have managed to paddle so far, so quickly, through so much danger. He had guessed that Radisson shared his desire to return to Trois-Rivières to be reunited with his family and had taken full advantage of it. Radisson was haunted by the murder of Serontatié. How bitterly he regretted it. Bringing about the death of his three companions had only put his own life in jeopardy. Now Katari, Ganaha, and Garagonké would hate him and all the Iroquois would search for him everywhere, their hearts filled with rage. If they found him, they would slaughter him without pity. What a mess!

  Radisson hated Negamabat for dragging him into this terrible situation. He hated him even more when he realized he hadn’t even bothered to take their victims’ bows and arrows so they could hunt without making a sound. There was no way they could use muskets: that would draw too much attention to themselves. Fishing in the river was also too risky. With so little to eat, Radisson’s stomach was beginning to grumble. Berries and roots were not enough. The journey back to Trois-Rivières was shaping up to be arduous indeed.

  For three nights, they paddled back down the river that Radisson had gone up as a prisoner. The Algonquin knew the way like the back of his hand; at least he had been telling the truth. Their days of half-sleep and worry were no better than half-restful. The task facing them was huge. Gradually, Radisson’s cold fury gave way to a cold analysis of the situation. Now that he had made the fatal mistake of killing the very people who had welcomed him as a son, there was no going back. All he could hope for was to make good his escape. They must reach New France and find refuge there at all costs. He poured all his energy and intelligence into reaching their goal. Even though he hated Negamabat, he had to acknowledge his cool-headedness and his skill, his courage and his stamina. Whether they were navigating along the water in the dark, dragging their canoe up onto the bank to avoid rapids, or forced to portage, Negamabat remained a dependable guide. In this regard, Radisson trusted him completely.

  All the same, the long days of waiting were unbearable.

  For three days in a row, Radisson broke one of the Algonquin’s rules. He armed himself with a long stick and went hunting, not far away from their hideaway. And it was just as well he did: for two days running, he managed to kill a porcupine. The raw meat they wolfed down restored some of their energy. On the third day, he returned empty-handed, and on the fourth day of his dissent, as Radisson was getting ready to venture out despite the furious looks from Negamabat, he saw three Iroquois canoes coming toward them. From the ridge where they had set up their camp, well back from the shore, they could see that the Iroquois were wearing war paint. They were paddling slowly, looking around them intently. One of their canoes moved toward the shore, another skirted past an islet. They were on the lookout… on the lookout for them, no doubt. A feeling of terror washed over Radisson. Even though their canoe was well hidden, it would not have taken much for them to be discovered and massacred. From that moment on, he gave up hunting during the day and stayed hidden instead. Not moving a muscle.

  The following night, beneath a pale quarter moon, the two fugitives carefully made their way across a large, dark lake to flee as far away as possible. Along the way they could make out the flames of an Iroquois campfire in the distance and hear disjointed chanting. It sounded angry, threatening.

  As the days passed, Radisson felt his strength abandoning him. In his exhaustion he replayed the fatal blow he dealt Serontatié over and over in his mind, and saw the moment when he tried to dislodge the tomahawk from his friend’s skull. In his nightmare, he could never manage to do it. It stayed there forever, as though the irreparable could never be forgotten. The murder haunted Radisson like no other event in his life. Cold, heavy, uninterrupted rain only added to his distress. The two were terribly cold. But they dared not light a fire, lest the Iroquois spot it. Their powder was damp, useless. Now they were weaponless and more vulnerable than ever.

  Radisson and Negamabat spent a hellish night hurtling through rapids they could not see in the dark. At every moment, their lives were in danger. But perhaps there was a god for fugitives, for they made it through the night unscathed. The next day, after they had recovered a little, Radisson gnawed at a few bitter roots before spending the rest of the day stretched out on his back. He was careful not to get too close to Negamabat, whom he both cursed and thanked God for, depending on the hour of the day. His eyes turned heavenward, he saw his whole life flash before him, as though in a dream. He thought about his father, his real father back in France, who disappeared without a word of explanation and was never seen again. Perhaps he was kidnapped, or murdered, or killed in an accident. Radisson was now more aware of these possibilities, whereas before he had always believed his father had abandoned him, his mother, and his younger sister. Life could be so unpredictable, so fragile. But whether his father disappeared of his own volition or not did not change the pain he felt. His thoughts that day could not heal the wound. Then and there, Radisson swore that if he ever reached Trois-Rivières alive, never again would he let anyone dictate his life. Never again would a Negamabat push him around or tell him what to do. He would seize his life by the scruff of the neck and make it his own, as if breaking in a horse.

  Radisson and the Algonquin at last reached the St. Lawrence. By this time, the lights and shadows of the night were playing tricks on Radisson. He was completely exhausted, mentally and physically. But he found hope. A few more hours paddling and he would be saved. Unfortunately, day dawned on them still far from Trois-Rivières. They would have to resign themselves once more to hiding for a whole day. They waded through the long grass of Lake Saint-Pierre to hide their canoe. They made it to the muddy bank— back where it all began —when despair engulfed Radisson.

  After a long pause, Negamabat broke their self-imposed rules and told Radisson to wait for him there while he went on to Trois-Rivières.

  “I’m taking the canoe. You wait for me here. As soon as I’ve returned to my Algonquin brothers, we’ll let the French know and they’ll come and get you. If no one comes within a day that means I’m dead. You’ll have to return to Trois-Rivières on foot, along the shore. Farewell.”

  “No! Don’t go!” pleaded Radisson. “We have to stick together. Wait for nightfall. Wait for me…”

  But the Algonquin disappeared into the long grass. He did not look back or answer Radisson.

  “Wait!” Radisson shouted again. “Wait!”

  “Good luck!” Negamabat grunted to him from afar.

  Radisson’s whole body was shaking. He could not bear the thought of dying here, of hunger or cold. For the first time, he thought of how Pierre Godefroy, François’ father, would react when he heard the news of his return. “Radisson!” he would cry. “The scoundrel who led my son to his death? Let him starve! That’s all he deserves.” Abandoned, once again.

  Without a second thought, Radisson caught up with Negamabat, just in time to leap into the canoe with him. “Too bad,” he thought. “I’ll live or die with the man who got me into this.”

  Their canoe slid out of the long grass and hea
ded toward Trois-Rivières. The sun warmed their bodies and re-energized them. At last, the river began to narrow. They were getting closer. Ahead of them, an object appeared in midstream. Negamabat stood up, and put his hand to his forehead to get a better look. It looked like a heron. He sat back down and said, “Let’s go,” picking up his paddle. Radisson trusted his judgment and began paddling again as best he could. But as they drew closer to the object, which was getting bigger by the minute, it didn’t take long for them to realize their mistake. It was not a heron at all, but a canoe full of Iroquois bearing down on them, eight warriors giving it their all, propelling their canoe forward at frightening speed. Their only chance of escaping with their lives was to head straight for shore and hide in the forest. They needed to be quick, but they were both bone tired…

  The tips of the first bulrushes thrusting out of the water slowed their canoe. Dry land was too far away for them to jump ashore. They would have to keep paddling. But the Iroquois were gaining on them with every stroke. Three shots rang out. Negamabat was hit and fell face down into the canoe, bleeding heavily. Radisson thought of jumping into the water to avoid the next round of fire. But it was too deep to walk in and the long grass was too thick for him to swim. The enemy canoe drew alongside him and four powerful arms grabbed hold of him. The Iroquois hauled him aboard and beat him, then tied a rope around his neck and bound his hands. One of them pulled out a fingernail with his teeth. Pain shot through his body, but Radisson did not even have the strength to scream. He let go of reality, as everything around him collapsed.