Chapter XVIII
For a Little Summer’s Sleep
We vaulted the fence, jumped a well-cut ditch (I took note that Andersonwas an excellent farmer), and ran across the fields. Presently came adeep, baying bark, and a great, light-coloured English mastiff camebounding toward us.
“Quiet, Ban!” said Nicole; and the huge beast, with a puppy-whine ofdelight, fell fawning at his knees. We were close to the house. Nicolestopped, and pointed to a cabin just visible at the foot of a long slopefalling away to our right.
“Julie’s brother may chance to be there, Master Paul,” said he. “He isknown for his devotion to Monsieur Anderson, whom few of us love. I willgo wake the lad, if he’s there, while you rouse the master.”
“If you should fail to get back this way, my friend,” said I, “let usmeet, say, at the boat.”
“Yes, at the boat,” he answered confidently.
I paused, partly to get breath, partly to follow him with a look ofgrateful admiration, the modest, still, strong, faithful retainer, of atype nigh vanished. He ran with his black-shock head thrust forward, andthe great dog bounded beside him like a kitten.
It was the last I ever saw of Nicole Brun; nor to this day, for all mysearching, have I had word of what befell him. Of the dog I learnedsomething, seeing his skin, a year later, worn upon the shoulders of anIndian boy of the Micmac settlement. From this I could make shrewd guessat the fate of my Nicole; but the Indian lies astutely, and I couldprove nothing. Sleep well, Nicole, my brave and true!
George Anderson’s wide red door carried a brass knocker which grinnedvenomously in the moonlight. My first summons brought no answer. Then Ithundered again, imperatively, and I heard Anderson’s voice within,calling to servants. No servants made reply, so again I hammered, andshook fiercely at the door. Then he came himself, looking bewildered.
“Monsieur Grande, pardon me! The servants”—
“The servants have fled,” I interrupted. “Come quickly! There is not aminute to lose. The abbé’s savages are near. They are coming to scalpyou and burn your house. We will leave them the house.”
There was no sign of fear on his face, merely annoyance; and I saw thathis mind worked but heavily.
“Come in!” he said, leading the way into a wide room looking out uponthe Kenneticook tide. “I won’t be driven by those curs. They dare nottouch me. At the worst, with the help of the servants we can fight themoff. Sit down, monsieur.”
And he proceeded calmly to pull on his boots.
I had followed him inside, wild at his obstinacy.
“I tell you,” said I, “they want your scalp. The servants are traitorsand have stolen away while you slept. We are alone. Come, man, come!Would you have _my_ throat cut, too?” And I shook him by the shoulder.
“Why have _you_ come?” he asked, unmoved, staring at me.
“For the sake of Yvonne de Lamourie!”
“Oh!” said he, eying me with a slow hostility.
“You fool!” I exclaimed. “They have burned De Lamourie’s. I swore toYvonne de Lamourie that I would save you or die with you. If you thinkshe loves you, stir yourself. I cannot carry you. Look at that!”
I pointed to the window. At Yvonne’s name he had risen to his feet. Helooked out. A group of canoes was turning in to shore, not two furlongsdistant.
“Where is she?” he inquired, alert at last.
“Safe,” said I curtly, “at Father Fafard’s.”
Still he wavered, brave, but undecided. I think he wondered why I washer chosen messenger.
“She is in a frenzy at your peril,” I said, though the words stuck in mythroat. That moved him. His face lighted with boyish pleasure.
“Come!” he cried, as if he had been urging me all the time. “We’ll slipout at the back, and keep the buildings between us and the river till wereach the woods.”
“Have you no weapon?” I asked.
“No,” said he, “but this will do,” and he picked up a heavy oak stickfrom behind the door of the room.
Great as was the haste, I told him to lock the main door. Then as weslipped out at the back we locked the kitchen door behind us. I knewthis would delay the chase; whereas if they found the doors open theywould realize at once the escape of their intended victim and rush inpursuit, leaving the little matter of the fire to be seen to afterwards.
From the back door we darted to the garden, a thicket of pole beans andhops and hollyhocks. From the furthest skirt of these shelters we ranalong a ditch that fenced a field of growing buckwheat, not yet highenough to give covert; but I think we kept well in shadow of the houseall the way to the woods. If afterwards our enemies tracked us with whatseemed a quite unnecessary promptitude and ease, it must be rememberedthat our trail was not obscure.
I led the flight, intending we should strike the creek at some distanceabove the boat and make our way down to it along the water’s edge, tocover our traces. The more we could divide our pursuers, the betterwould be our chances in the struggle, if overtaken. The pace I set was asharp one, and soon, as I could perceive by his breathing, began to tellupon my heavy-limbed and unhardened companion. I slackened gradually,that he might not think I did it on his account.
In a very few minutes there arose behind us, coming thinly through thetrees, the screeching war-whoop of the Micmacs, which has ever seemed tome more demoniacal and inhuman than even that of the Iroquois. Then,when we took time to glance over our shoulders, we marked a red glareclimbing slowly. I judged that our escape was by this time discovered,and the wolves hot upon our trail.
To my companion, however, the sight brought a different thought.
“Where were you,” he gasped, “when they attacked De Lamourie’s? Did younot—promise—to save the place?”
“I was a fool,” said I, between my teeth. “I thought the might of myname had saved it. I went to the Habitants. When I got back it wasover.”
“Ah!” was all he said, husbanding his breath.
“And they think I am a traitor—that I sanctioned it,” I went on in abitter voice.
He gave a short laugh, impatiently.
“Who?” he asked.
“Monsieur and Madame,” said I, “and, possibly, Mademoiselle also.”
“I could—have told them better than that,” he panted; “I know a man.”
Under the circumstances I did not think that modesty required me todisclaim the compliment.
A little further on he clutched me by the arm, and stopped, gasping.
“Blown,” said he, smiling, as if the situation were quite casual.“Must—one minute.”
I chafed, but stood motionless.
Suddenly there was a heavy crash some distance behind us.
“They are so sure, they scorn the least precaution,” I whispered,foolishly wroth at their confidence. “But come, though your lungs shouldburst for it,” I went on. “I will seize the first hiding-place.”
He rallied like a man, and we raced on with fresh speed. Indeed, as Ilook back upon it, I see that he did miraculously well for one so unusedto the exercise.
Five minutes later we came to a small brook crossing our path from leftto right toward the Kenneticook. It was a place of low, brushy shrubsunder large trees.
“Keep close to me,” I whispered, “and look sharp. We’ll stop righthere.”
I stepped into the middle of the brook, and he did likewise, carefully.Setting our feet with precaution to disturb no stones, we descended thestream some twenty paces, then crept ashore beneath the thick growth,and lay at full length like logs.
“You must get your breathing down to silence absolute,” I whispered;“they will be here in two minutes.”
In half a minute he had his laboring lungs in harness. Though within anarm’s length of him I could hear no sound. But I could hear our pursuersthrashing along on our trail. In a minute they were at the brook, tofind the trail cut short. I caught snatches of their guttural comment,and laughed in my
sleeve as I realized that Anderson’s very weakness wasgoing to serve our ends. The savages never dreamed that any one could bewinded from so short a run. Had their quarry gone up the brook or downit, was all their wonder. Unable to decide, they split into two parties,going either way. From the corner of my eye, violently twisted, I markedseven redskins loping past down stream.
When they were out of hearing, I touched Anderson on the shoulder.
“Come,” said I, “now is our time.”
“That was neat, very,” he muttered, with a quiet little chuckle, risingand throwing off the underbrush like an ox climbing out of his Augustwallow.
“Straight ahead now for the creek,” I whispered, crossing the brook; buta sound from behind made me turn. There stood a huge savage, muchastonished at the apparition of us.
His astonishment was our salvation. It delayed his signal yell. As hisbreath drew in for it and I sprang with my sword, the Englishman wasupon him naked-handed. He forgot his stick; which indeed was well, forhis two hands at the redskin’s throat best settled the matter of thesignal. For a Quaker, whom I have heard to be peaceful folk, Andersonseemed to me a good deal in earnest. Big and supple though the savagewas, he was choked in half a minute and his head knocked against a tree.Anderson let him drop, a limp carcass, upon the underbrush, and stoodover him panting and clenching his fingers, ready to try a new hold.
I examined the painted mass.
“Not dead, quite!” said I. “But he’s as good as dead for an hour, Ishould say. I think perhaps we need not finish him.”
“Better finish him, and make sure,” urged Anderson, to my openastonishment. “He may stir up trouble for us later.”
But I was firm. I like, positively like, to kill my man in fair fight;but once down he’s safe from me, though he were the devil himself.
“No,” said I, “you shall not. Come on. If the poor rascal ever gets overthat mauling, he’ll deserve to. _That_ was neat, now. You are muchwasted in Quakerdom, monsieur, when your English armies are needing goodmen.”
He was following close at my heels, as I once more led the race throughthe woods. He made no answer. Either he was saving his wind, or he wasangry at leaving a good job unfinished. I mocked myself in my own heart,thinking:
“Paul, you fool, out of this big Quaker you have made a fighter, and heseems to like it. You may find your hands full with him, one of thesedays.”
The thought was pleasant to me on the whole, for it is ill anddishonouring work to fight a man who is no fair match for you. That wassomething I never could stomach, and have ever avoided, even though atthe cost of deep annoyance.
Now the ground began to rise, and I guessed we were nearing the creek ata point where the banks were high.
“Nearly there,” I whispered encouragingly, and thrust forward withsudden elation through a dense screen of underbrush. I was right—all tooright. The leafage parted as parts a cloud. There was no ground beneathmy feet.
“Back!” I hissed wildly, and went plunging down a dark steep, striking,rebounding, clutching now at earth and now at air. At last it appearedto me that I came partly to a stop and merely rolled; but it no longerseemed worth while to grasp at anything.
A Sister to Evangeline Page 19
