Part 12 (2/2)
But Sieur de Radisson only puckered his brows, s.h.i.+fted position so that the St. Pierre could give a broadside, and said nothing.
Then came the strangest part of it. Another s.h.i.+p poked her nose across the other side of the entrance. This was white-rigged.
”Two s.h.i.+ps, and they have us cooped!” exclaimed Jean.
”One sporting different sails,” said M. de Radisson contemptuously.
”What do you think we should do, sir?” asked Jean.
”Think?” demanded Radisson. ”I have stopped thinking! I act! My thoughts are acts.”
But all the same his thought at that moment was to let go a broadside that sent the stranger scudding. Judging it unwise to keep a half-mutinous crew too near pirate s.h.i.+ps, M. Radisson ordered anchor up. With a deck-mop fastened in defiance to our prow, the St. Pierre slipped out of the harbour through the half-dark of those northern summer nights, and gave the heel to any highwayman waiting to attack as she pa.s.sed.
The rest of the voyage was a ploughing through brash ice in the straits, with an occasional disembarking at the edge of some great ice-field; but one morning we were all awakened from the heavy sleep of hard-worked seamen by the screaming of a mult.i.tude of birds. The air was odorous with the crisp smell of woods. When we came on deck, 'twas to see the St. Pierre anch.o.r.ed in the cove of a river that raced to meet the bay.
The screaming gulls knew not what to make of these strange visitors; for we were at Port Nelson--Fort Bourbon, as the French called it.
And you must not forget that we were French on _that_ trip!
[1] These expressions are M. de Radisson's and not words coined by Mr.
Stanhope, as may be seen by reference to the French explorer's account of his own travels, written partly in English, where he repeatedly refers to a ”pretty pickle.” As for the s.h.i.+ps, they seem to have been something between a modern whaler and old-time brigantine.--_Author_.
CHAPTER VIII
M. DE RADISSON COMES TO HIS OWN
The sea was touched to silver by the rising sun--not the warm, red sun of southern climes, nor yet the gold light of the temperate zones, but the cold, clear steel of that great cold land where all the warring elements challenge man to combat. Browned by the early frosts, with a glint of h.o.a.r rime on the cobwebs among the gra.s.ses, north, south, and west, as far as eye could see, were boundless reaches of hill and valley. And over all lay the rich-toned shadows of early dawn.
The broad river raced not to meet the sea more swiftly than our pulses leaped at sight of that unclaimed world. 'Twas a kingdom waiting for its king. And its king had come! Flush with triumph, sniffing the nutty, autumn air like a war-horse keen for battle, stood M. Radisson all impatience for the conquest of new realms. His jewelled sword-hilt glistened in the sun. The fire that always slumbered in the deep-set eyes flashed to life; and, fetching a deep breath, he said a queer thing to Jean and me.
”'Tis good air, lads,” says he; ”'tis free!”
And I, who minded that b.l.o.o.d.y war in which my father lost his all, knew what the words meant, and drank deep.
But for the screaming of the birds there was silence of death. And, indeed, it was death we had come to disenthrone. M. Radisson issued orders quick on top of one another, and the sailors swarmed from the hold like bees from a hive. The drum beat a roundelay that set our blood hopping. There were trumpet-calls back and forth from our s.h.i.+p to the Ste. Anne. Then, to a whacking of cables through blocks, the gig-boats touched water, and all hands were racing for the sh.o.r.e.
G.o.defroy waved a monster flag--lilies of France, gold-wrought on cloth of silk--and Allemand kept beating--and beating--and beating the drum, rumbling out a ”Vive le Roi!” to every stroke. Before the keel gravelled on the beach, M. Radisson's foot was on the gunwale, and he leaped ash.o.r.e. G.o.defroy followed, flouris.h.i.+ng the French flag and yelling at the top of his voice for the King of France. Behind, wading and floundering through the water, came the rest. G.o.defroy planted the flag-staff. The two crews sent up a shout that startled those strange, primeval silences. Then, M. Radisson stepped forward, hat in hand, whipped out his sword, and held it aloft.
”In the name of Louis the Great, King of France,” he shouted, ”in the name of His Most Christian Majesty, the King of France, I take possession of all these regions!”
At that, Chouart Groseillers s.h.i.+vered a bottle of wine against the flag-pole. Drums beat, fifes shrieked as for battle, and l.u.s.ty cheers for the king and Sieur Radisson rang and echoed and re-echoed from our crews. Three times did Allemand beat his drum and three times did we cheer. Then Pierre Radisson raised his sword. Every man dropped to knee. Catholics and Protestants, Calvinists and infidels, and riff-raff adventurers who had no religion but what they swore by, bowed their heads to the solemn thanks which Pierre Radisson uttered for safe deliverance from perilous voyage. [1]
That was my first experience of the fusion which the New World makes of Old World divisions. We thought we had taken possession of the land.
No, no, 'twas the land had taken possession of us, as the New World ever does, fusing ancient hates and rearing a new race, of which--I wot--no prophet may dare too much!
”He who twiddles his thumbs may gnaw his gums,” M. Radisson was wont to say; and I a.s.sure you there was no twiddling of thumbs that morning.
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