Fort Amity

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE VOYAGEURS.

  Fringue, fringue sur la riviere; Fringue, fringue sur l'aviron!

  The man at the bow paddle set the chorus, which was taken up by boatafter boat. John, stretched at the bottom of a canoe with twowounded Highlanders, wondered where he had heard the voice before.His wits were not very clear yet. The canoe's gunwale hid all thelandscape but a mountain-ridge high over his right, feathered withforest and so far away that, swiftly as the strokes carried himforward, its serrated pines and notches of naked rock crept by himinch by inch. He stared at these and prayed for the moment when thesun should drop behind them. For hours it had been beating down onhim. An Indian sat high in the stern, steering; paddlingrhythmically and with no sign of effort except that his face ran withsweat beneath its grease and vermilion. But not a feature of ittwitched in the glare across which, hour after hour, John had beenwatching him through scorched eyelashes.

  Athwart the stern, and almost at the Indian's feet, reclined a brawnof a man with his knees drawn high--a French sergeant in aspick-and-span white tunic with the badge of the Bearnais regiment.A musket lay across his thighs, so pointed that John looked straightdown its barrel. Doubtless it was loaded: but John had plenty todistract his thoughts from such a trifle--in the heat, the glare, thetorment of his wounds, and, worst of all, the incessant coughing ofthe young Highlander beside him. The lad had been shot through thelungs, and the wound imperfectly bandaged. A horrible wind issuedfrom it with every cough.

  How many men might be seated or lying in the fore part of the canoeJohn could not tell, being unable to turn his head. Once or twice aguttural voice there growled a word of comfort to the dying lad, inGaelic or in broken English. And always the bowman sang high andclear, setting the chorus for the attendant boats, and from thechorus passing without a break into the solo. "En roulant ma boule"followed "Fringue sur l'aviron "; and from that the voice slid into alittle love-chant, tender and delicate:

  "A la claire fontaine M'en allant promener, J'ai trouve l'eau si belle Que je m'y suis baigne. Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai."

  "II y a longtemps que je t'aime," broke in the chorus, the wide lakemodulating the music as water only can. John remembered the abattisand all its slaughter, and marvelled what manner of men they werewho, fresh from it, could put their hearts into such a song.

  "Et patati, et patata!" rapped in the big sergeant. "For God's sake,Chameau, what kind of milk is this to turn a man's stomach?"

  The chorus drowned his growls, and the bowman continued:

  "Sur la plus haute branche Le rossignol chantait, Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai . . . Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai; Tu as le coeur a rire, Moi je l'ai--t a pleurer. . . ."

  "Gr-r-r--" As the song ended, the sergeant spat contemptuously overthe gunwale. "La-la-la, rossignol! et la-la-la, rosier!" hemimicked. "We are not _rosieres_, my friend."

  "The song is true Canayan, m'sieur, and your comrades appear to likeit."

  "Par exemple! Listen, Monsieur Chameau, to something more in theirline." He inflated his huge lungs and burst into a ditty of his own:

  "C'est dans la ville de Bordeaux Qu'est arrive trois beaux vaissaux-- Qu'est arrive trois beaux vaissaux: Les matelots qui sont dedans, Vrai Dieu, sont de jolis galants."

  The man had a rich baritone voice, not comparable indeed with thebowman's tenor, yet not without quality; but he used it affectedly,and sang with a simper on his face. His face, brick red in hue, washandsome in its florid way; but John, watching the simper, found itdetestable.

  "C'est une dame de Bordeaux Qu'est amoureuse d'un matelot--"

  Here he paused, and a few soldiers took up the refrainhalf-heartedly:

  "--Va, ma servante, va moi chercher Un matelot pour m'amuser."

  The song from this point became indecent, and set the men in thenearer boats laughing. At its close a few clapped their hands.But it was not a success, and the brick red darkened on the singer'sface; darkened almost to purple when a voice in the distance took upthe air and returned it mockingly, caricaturing a _roulade_ to thelife with the help of one or two ridiculous gracenotes: at which thesoldiers laughed again.

  "I think, m'sieur," suggested the bowman politely, "they do not knowit very well, or they would doubtless have been heartier."

  But the sergeant had heaved himself up with a curse and a lurch whichsent the canoe rocking, and was scanning the boats for the fellow whohad dared to insult him.

  "How the devil can a man sing while that dog keeps barking!" hegrowled, and let out a kick at the limp legs of the young Highlander.

  Another growl answered. It came from the wounded prisoner behindJohn--the man who had been muttering in Gaelic.

  "It is a coward you are, big man. Go on singing your sculduddery,and let the lad die quiet!"

  The sergeant scowled, not understanding. John, whose blood was up,obligingly translated the reproof into French. "He says--and Ialso--that you are a cowardly bully; and we implore you to sing intune, another time. Par pitie, monsieur, ne scalpez-vous pas lesdemi-morts!"

  The shaft bit, as he had intended, and the man's vanity positivelyfoamed upon it. "Dog of a _ros-bif_, congratulate yourself that youare half dead, or I would whip you again as we whipped you yesterday,and as my regiment is even now again whipping your compatriots."He jerked a thumb towards the south where, far up the lake, a palesaffron glow spread itself upon the twilight.

  "The English are burning your fort, maybe," John suggested amiably.

  "They are burning the mill, more like--or their boats. But aftersuch a defeat, who cares?"

  "If our general had only used his artillery--"

  "Eh, what is that you're singing? _Oui-da_, if your general had onlyused his artillery? My little friend, that's a fine battle--thatbattle of 'If.' It is always won, too--only it has the misfortunenever to be fought. So, so: and a grand battle it is too, forreputations. '_If_ the guns had only arrived '; and '_if_ thebrigadier Chose had brought up the reserves as ordered'; and '_if_the right had extended itself, and that devil of a left had notstraggled'--why then we should all be heroes, we _ros-bifs_.Whereas we came on four to one, and we were beaten; and we arebeing carried north to Montreal and our general is running south froman army one-third of his size and burning fireworks on his way.And at Albany the ladies will take your standards and stitch '_If_'on them in gold letters a foot long. Eh, but it was a gloriousfight--faith of Sergeant Barboux!"

  And Sergeant Barboux, having set his vanity on its legs again, pulledout his pipe and skin of tobacco.

  "Hola, M. le Chameau!" he called; "the gentleman desires better musicthan mine. Sing for him 'Malbrouck s'en va-t'en guerre'!"

  M. le Chameau lifted his voice obediently; and thereupon Johnrecognised the note and knew to whose singing he had lain awake inthe woods so far behind and (it seemed) those ages ago.

  He had been young then, and all possibilities of glory lay beyond thehorizons to which he was voyaging. Darkness had closed down on them,but the beat of the paddles drove him forward. He stared up at thepeering stars and tried to bethink him that they looked down on thesame world that he had known--on Albany--Halifax--perhaps even onCleeve Court in Devonshire. The bowman's voice, ahead in thedarkness, kept time with the paddles:

  "Il reviendra-z; a Paques-- Mironton, mironton, mirontaine! Il reviendra-z a Paques, Ou--a la Trinite!"

  Yes, the question was of returning, now; a day had made thatdifference. Yet why should he wish to return? Of what worth wouldhis return be? For weeks, for months, he had been living in a lifeahead, towards which these paddles were faithfully guiding him; andif the hope had died out of it, and all the colour, what better laybehind that he should seek back to it?--a mother, who had shown himlittle love; a brother, who coldly considered him a fool; nearer, butonly a l
ittle nearer--for already the leagues between seemedendless--a few friends, a few messmates . . .

  His ribs hurt him intolerably; and his wrist, too, was painful.Yet his wounds troubled him with no thought of death. On thecontrary, he felt quite sure of recovering and living on, and on, on,on--in those unknown regions ahead . . .

  "La Trinite se passe-- Mironton, mironton, mirontaine! La Trinite se passe-- Malbrouck ne revient pas."

  What were they like, those regions ahead? For he was young--lessthan twenty--and a life almost as long as an ordinary man's might liebefore him yonder. He remembered an old discussion with a seminarypriest at Douai, on Nicodemus's visit by night and his question,"How can a man be born when he is old?" . . . and all his thoughtsharked back to the Church he had left--that Church so Catholic, sofar-reaching, so secure of herself in all climes and amid all nationsof men. There were Jesuits, he knew, up yonder, beyond the rivers,beyond the forests. He would find that Church there, steadfast asthese stars and, alone with them, bridging all this long gulf.In his momentary weakness the repose She offered came on him as atemptation. Had he but anchored himself upon her, all these leagueshad been as nothing. But he had cut himself adrift; and now theworld, too, had cut him off, and where was he with his doubts? . . .Or was She following now and whispering, "Poor fool, you thoughtyourself strong, and I granted you a short licence; but I havefollowed, as I can follow everywhere, unseen, knowing the hour whenyou must repent and want me; and lo! my lap is open. Come, let itsfolds wrap you, and at once there is no more trouble; for within themtime and distance are not, and all this voyage shall be as a dream."

  No; he put the temptation from him. For it was a sensual temptationafter all, surprising him in anguish and exhaustion and bribing withpromise of repose. He craved after it, but set his teeth. "Yes, youare right, so far. The future has gone from me, and I have no hopes.But it seems I have to live, and I am a man. My doubts are mydoubts, and this is no fair moment to abandon them. What I mustsuffer, I will try to suffer. . . ."

  The bowman had lit a lantern in the bows and passed back the resinousbrand to an Indian seated forward, who in turn handed it back overJohn's head toward Sergeant Barboux, but, seeing that he dozed,crawled aft over the wounded men and set it to the wick of a secondlantern rigged on a stick astern. As the wick took fire, the Indian,who had been steering hitherto hour after hour, grunted out asyllable or two and handed his comrade the paddle. The pair changedplaces, and the ex-steersman--who seemed the elder by many years--crept cautiously forward; the lantern-light, as he passed it, fallingwarm on his scarlet trowsers and drawing fiery twinkles from his beltand silver arm-ring.

  With a guttural whisper he crouched over John, so low that his bodyblotted out the lantern, the stars, the whole dim arch of theheavens. Was this murder? John shut his teeth. If this were to bethe end, let it come now and be done with; he would not cry out.The Highland lad had ceased his coughing and lay unconscious, pantingout the last of his life more and more feebly. The elder Highlandermoaned from time to time in his sleep, but had not stirred for somewhile. Forward the bowman's paddle still beat time like a clock, andaway in the darkness other paddles answered it.

  A hand was groping with the bandages about John's chest and looseningthem gently until his wound felt the edge of the night wind. All hismuscles stiffened to meet the coming stroke. . . .

  The Indian grunted and withdrew his hand. A moment, and John felt itlaid on the wound again, with a touch which charmed away pain and thewind's chill together--a touch of smooth ointment.

  Do what he would, a sob shook the lad from head to foot.

  "Thanks, brother!" he whispered in French. The Indian did notanswer, but replaced and drew close the bandage with rapid hands, andso with another grunt crawled forward, moving like a shadow, scarcelytouching the wounded men as he went.

  For a while John lay awake, gazing up into the stars. His pain hadgone, and he felt infinitely restful. The vast heavens were aprotection now, a shield flung over his helplessness. He had found afriend.

  Why?

  That he could not tell. But he had found a friend, and could sleep.

  In his dreams he heard a splash. The young Highlander had died inthe night, and Sergeant Barboux and the Indian lifted and dropped thebody overboard.

  But John a Cleeve slept on; and still northward through the night,down the long reaches of the lake, the canoe held her way.