Heralds of Empire

  CHAPTER IX

  VISITORS

  The fire had every appearance of a night bivouac, but there was remnantof neither camp nor hunt. Somewhere on my left lay the river. By thatthe way led back to M. Radisson's rendezvous. It was riskyenough--that threading of the pathless woods through the pitchy dark;but he who pauses to measure the risk at each tread is ill fitted topioneer wild lands.

  Who the assassin was and why he had so suddenly desisted, I knew nomore than you do! That he had attacked was natural enough; for whoevertook first possession of no-man's-land in those days either murderedhis rivals or sold them to slavery. But why had he flung his sworddown at the moment of victory?

  The pelting of the rain softened to a leafy patter, the patter to adrip, and a watery moon came glimmering through the clouds. With myenemy's rapier in hand I began cutting a course through the thicket.Radisson's fire no longer shone. Indeed, I became mighty uncertainwhich direction to take, for the rush of the river merged with thebeating of the wind. The ground sloped precipitously; and I washolding back by the underbrush lest the bank led to water when anindistinct sound, a smothery murmur like the gurgle of a subterraneanpool, came from below.

  The wind fell. The swirl of the flowing river sounded far from therear. I had become confused and was travelling away from the truecourse. But what was that sound?

  I threw a stick forward. It struck hard stone. At the same instantwas a sibilant, human--distinctly human--"Hss-h," and the sound hadceased.

  That was no laving of inland pond against pebbles. Make of it what youwill--there were voices, smothered but talking. "No-no-no" . . . thenthe warning . . . "Hush!" . . . then the wind and the river and . . ."No--no!" with words like oaths. . . . "No--I say, no! Having come sofar, no!--not if it were my own brother!" . . . then the low"Hush!" . . . and pleadings . . . then--"Send Le Borgne!"

  And an Indian had rushed past me in the dark with a pine fagot in hishand.

  Rising, I stole after him. 'Twas the fellow who had been at the firewith that unknown assailant. He paused over the smouldering embers,searching the ground, found the hilt of the broken sword, lifted thesevered blade, kicked leaves over all traces of conflict, andextinguishing the fire, carried off the broken weapon. An Indian canpick his way over known ground without a torch. What was this fellowdoing with a torch? Had he been sent for me? I drew back in shadow tolet him pass. Then I ran with all speed to the river.

  Gray dawn came over the trees as I reached the swollen waters, and thesun was high in mid-heaven when I came to the gravel patch where M. deRadisson had camped. Round a sharp bend in the river a strange sightunfolded.

  A score of crested savages with painted bodies sat on the ground. Inthe centre, clad like a king, with purple doublet and plumed hat andvelvet waistcoat ablaze with medals of honour--was M. Radisson. Onehand deftly held his scabbard forward so that the jewelled hilt shoneagainst the velvet, and the other was raised impressively above thesavages. How had he made the savages come to him? How are some menborn to draw all others as the sea draws the streams?

  The poor creatures had piled their robes at his feet as offerings to agod.

  "What did he give for the pelts, Godefroy?" I asked.

  "Words!" says Godefroy, with a grin, "gab and a drop o' rum diluted ina pot o' water!"

  "What is he saying to them now?"

  Godefroy shrugged his shoulders. "That the gods have sent him amessenger to them; that the fire he brings "--he was handing a musketto the chief--"will smite the Indians' enemy from the earth; that thebullet is magic to outrace the fleetest runner"--this as M. Radissonfired a shot into mid-air that sent the Indians into ecstasies ofchildish wonder--"that the bottle in his hands contains death, and ifthe Indians bring their hunt to the white-man, the white-man will nevertake the cork out except to let death fly at the Indians' enemy"--helifted a little phial of poison as he spoke--"that the Indian neednever feel cold nor thirst, now that the white-man has broughtfire-water!"

  At this came a harsh laugh from a taciturn Indian standing on the outerrim of the crowd. It was the fellow who had run through the forestwith the torch.

  "Who is that, Godefroy?"

  "Le Borgne."

  "Le Borgne need not laugh," retorted M. de Radisson sharply. "LeBorgne knows the taste of fire-water! Le Borgne has been with thewhite-man at the south, and knows what the white-man says is true."

  But Le Borgne only laughed the harder, deep, guttural, contemptuous"huh-huh's!"--a fitting rebuke, methought, for the ignoble deceptionimplied in M. Radisson's words.

  Indeed, I would fain suppress this part of M. Radisson's record, for hejuggled with truth so oft, when he thought the end justified the means,he finally got a knack of juggling so much with truth that the meanswould never justify any end. I would fain repress the ignoble faultsof a noble leader, but I must even set down the facts as they are, soyou may see why a man who was the greatest leader and trader andexplorer of his times reaped only an aftermath of universal distrust.He lied his way through thick and thin--as we traders used to say--tillthat lying habit of his sewed him up in a net of his own weaving like agrub in a cocoon.

  Godefroy was giving a hand to bind up my gashed palm when somethinggrunted a "huff-huff" beside us. Le Borgne was there with a queer lookon his inscrutable face.

  "Le Borgne, you rascal, you know who gave me this," I began, takingcareful scrutiny of the Indian.

  One eye was glazed and sightless, the other yellow like a fox's; butthe fellow was straight, supple, and clean-timbered as a fresh-hewnmast. With a "huh-huh," he gabbled back some answer.

  "What does he say, Godefroy?"

  "He says he doesn't understand the white-man's tongue--which is a lie,"added Godefroy of his own account. "Le Borgne was interpreter for theFur Company at the south of the bay the year that M. Radisson left theEnglish."

  Were my assailants, then, Hudson's Bay Company men come up from thesouth end of James Bay? Certainly, the voice had spoken English. Iwould have drawn Godefroy aside to inform him of my adventure, but LeBorgne stuck to us like a burr. Jean was busy helping M. de Radissonat the trade, or what was called "trade," when white men gave an awlfor forty beaver-skins.

  "Godefroy," I said, "keep an eye on this Indian till I speak to M. deRadisson." And I turned to the group. 'Twas as pretty a bit of colouras I have ever seen. The sea, like silver, on one side; theautumn-tinted woods, brown and yellow and gold, on the other; M. deRadisson in his gay dress surrounded by a score of savages with theirfaces and naked chests painted a gaudy red, headgear of swans' down,eagle quills depending from their backs, and buckskin trousers fringedwith the scalp-locks of the slain.

  Drawing M. de Radisson aside, I gave him hurried account of the night'sadventures.

  "Ha!" says he. "Not Hudson's Bay Company men, or you would be inirons, lad! Not French, for they spoke English. Pardieu! Poachersand thieves--we shall see! Where is that vagabond Cree? These peopleare southern Indians and know nothing of him.--Godefroy," he called.

  Godefroy came running up. "Le Borgne's gone," said Godefroybreathlessly.

  "Gone?" repeated Radisson.

  "He left word for Master Stanhope from one who wishes him well--"

  "One who wishes him well," repeated M. Radisson, looking askance at me.

  "For Master Stanhope not to be bitten twice by the same dog!"

  Our amazement you may guess: M. de Radisson, suspicious of treacheryand private trade and piracy on my part; I as surprised to learn that Ihad a well-wisher as I had been to discover an unknown foe; andGodefroy, all cock-a-whoop with his news, as is the way of the vulgar.

  "Ramsay," said M. Radisson, speaking very low and tense, "As you hopeto live and without a lie, what--does--this--mean?"

  "Sir, as I hope to live--I--do--not--know!"

  He continued to search me with doubting looks. I raised my woundedhand.

  "Will you do me the honour to satisfy yourself that wound is genuine?"

  "
Pish!" says he.

  He studied the ground. "There's nothing impossible on this earth.Facts are hard dogs to down.--Jean," he called, "gather up the pelts!It takes a man to trade well, but any fool can make fools drink!Godefroy--give the knaves the rum--but mind yourselves," he warned,"three parts rain-water!" Then facing me, "Take me to that bank!"

  He followed without comment.

  At the place of the camp-fire were marks of the struggle.

  "The same boot-prints as on the sand! A small man," observed Radisson.

  But when we came to the sloping bank, where the land fell sheer away toa dry, pebbly reach, M. Radisson pulled a puzzled brow.

  "They must have taken shelter from the rain. They must have been underyour feet."

  "But where are their foot-marks?" I asked.

  "Washed out by the rain," said he; but that was one of the untruthswith which a man who is ever telling untruths sometimes deceiveshimself; for if the bank sheltered the intruders from the rain, it alsosheltered their foot-marks, and there was not a trace.

  "All the same," said M. de Radisson, "we shall make these Indians ourfriends by taking them back to the fort with us."

  "Ramsay," he remarked on the way, "there's a game to play."

  "So it seems."

  "Hold yourself in," said he sententiously.

  I walked on listening.

  "One plays as your friend, the other as your foe! Show neither friendnor foe your hand! Let the game tell! 'Twas the reined-in horse wonKing Charles's stakes at Newmarket last year! Hold yourself in, I say!"

  "In," I repeated, wondering at this homily.

  "And hold yourself up," he continued. "That coxcomb of a marquisalways trailing his dignity in the dust of mid-road to worry with acommon dog like La Chesnaye--pish! Hold your self-respect in the chestof your jacket, man! 'Tis the slouching nag that loses the race! Holdyourself up!"

  His words seemed hard sense plain spoken.

  "And let your feet travel on," he added.

  "In and up and on!" I repeated.

  "In and up and on--there's mettle for you, lad!"

  And with that terse text--which, I think, comprehended the whole of M.Radisson's philosophy--we were back at the beach.

  The Indians were not in such a state as I have seen after many atrading bout. They were able to accompany us. In embarking, M.Radisson must needs observe all the ceremony of two races. Such awhiffing of pipes among the stately, half-drunk Indian chiefs you neversaw, with a pompous proffering of the stem to the four corners of thecompass, which they thought would propitiate the spirits. Jean blew ablast on the trumpet. I waved the French flag. Godefroy beat arattling fusillade on the drum, grabbed up his bobbing tipstaff, ledthe way; and down we filed to the canoes.

  At all this ostentation I could not but smile; but no man ever hadgreater need of pomp to hold his own against uneven odds than Radisson.

  As we were leaving came a noise that set us all by the ears--the dullbooming reverberations of heavy cannonading.

  The Indians shook as with palsy. Jean Groseillers cried out that hisfather's ships were in peril. Godefroy implored the saints; but withthat lying facility which was his doom, M. de Radisson blandly informedthe savages that more of his vessels had arrived from France.

  Bidding Jean go on to the Habitation with the Indians, he took the restof us ashore with one redskin as guide, to spy out the cause of thefiring.

  "'Twill be a pretty to-do if the English Fur Company's ships arrivebefore we have a French fort ready to welcome them," said he.