by Philip Roy
He returned to the swamp full of energy and purpose. There were many things to do before he would return. Halfway to his tunnel system, he heard the sharp bark of a leader of the bluecoats. The sun was not up yet but the sky over the sea was turning blue. The barking voice had come from the water. Two-feathers scurried to the edge of the swamp where it bordered on the beach. Standing tall on the grass and raising his head he saw the silhouette of a ship. It was leaving the bluecoats’ village and was filled with soldiers. A warring party! The bluecoats were off to fight their enemy the redcoats again. His father must be on that ship. No wonder he had been so difficult to find, he was always fighting the enemy, as any noble warrior would be. Two-feathers felt pleased at the thought. He burned the sight of the ship into his memory. He would watch for it to return when he came back. He was confident he would find his father then.
Chapter Fifteen
Annapolis Royal used to belong to us, the French. It had been a French settlement from the start but was given to the English in a treaty from a previous war. Now it was a strong English garrison. Most of the settlers in the area, however, were still French, or rather, Acadian, which really meant French people who had no intention of returning to France. There were also the Natives, who were more or less allied to the French and the Acadians. I was told that this was because the French treated them better than the English did. If we killed them with disease and stole their land one could only wonder what the English did.
We gathered in the middle of the night, boarded our little ship and sailed out of the harbour before the sun was up. Dreading seasickness like the plague I was astonished to discover I felt none. Half of the regiment was throwing up, but only because they were still drunk when they marched on board. My father, immensely proud of the undertaking, was not very impressed that half of his soldiers were bent over the sides of the ship, emptying their stomachs into the sea. In a show of discipline he barked out orders for the men to stand to attention and forced us to stand for an hour or so until two of the men fainted. It was then I began to realize I was not the only object of my father’s disappointment. None of the soldiers in the regiment appeared to live up to his expectations and I quickly fell into sympathy with them.
It was a very curious phenomenon to me the difference between the language the soldiers used when they were sitting around discussing strategy and the language they used when they were actually holding weapons in their hands. In the first case they used words like surround, capture, surrender and imprison. In the second they used words like shoot, kill, maim and slaughter. I became convinced that you really did change a man the moment you put a musket in his hands.
We were just three days on the sea and always within sight of land. The largest portion of our journey would be overland where we expected our numbers to swell with all the Acadians and Natives who wanted to force the English out of their land. All we had to do, my father said, was announce to everyone we met along the way that we were heading to Annapolis Royal to attack and destroy it. Our allies would come out of the woods and leave the fields to join us. Once again I questioned a certain contradiction in our strategy. Why would we travel across the countryside telling everyone of our intention to sneak up on and attack a fortified garrison? I was the last person to possess a military mind, but wasn’t anyone worried about losing the element of surprise?
Once we reached our destination, ships from Louisbourg would arrive with additional soldiers and we would storm the garrison. I remembered what M. Anglaise had said about making a display of manliness to impress my father. I tried to imagine it. I imagined myself running into the chaos of the smoke-filled garrison, yelling my head off and waving my musket around. I also imagined getting shot in the head and bleeding to death on the ground. How impressed would my father be with that?
By the time we disembarked from the ship I had befriended a few of the soldiers, to my father’s displeasure. Louis, from the south of France, had come to Louisbourg by the strangest set of circumstances. On a voyage to Paris, he had been mistaken for a thief and had been given the choice of spending the rest of his life in prison or joining the King’s army. He chose the latter. He was immediately shipped off to Louisbourg to serve his time. Having left home merely to see the city of Paris, he got a lot more than he expected. Louis was big and strong and had come from a farm. He was surprisingly accepting of his fate.
Charles was half the size of Louis. He wore the smallest size of uniform, but it still looked too big. He always moved quickly, and even when his body wasn’t moving, his eyes were. They were shiny and bursting with life, though they occasionally clouded over with the thought that he might never see France again. Strangely enough, his story was the same as Louis’s. He had been mistaken for a criminal and sent to Louisbourg. Both men strongly professed their innocence and I believed them. It was the same with many of the soldiers, as if they had picked up the same story somehow when they put on their uniforms. But we all had one thing in common: none of us had come by choice.
Then there was Pierre, who actually looked like a thief. He hated wearing the uniform even more than I did. But he said he preferred the New World to France and would never go back. As we walked through the woods he kept looking in every direction as if waiting for a good chance to escape. In fact, I was surprised to learn that, like me, none of the foot soldiers had any particular quarrel with the English, which made us all unlikely candidates for killing them. I think my father could sense this and didn’t approve of my camaraderie with them. He couldn’t prevent it, though, once we got into the woods and the heavy foliage separated us to some extent. This was the one part of the expedition that I actually enjoyed – talking with Louis, Charles and Pierre as we walked through the woods on our way to kill the English.
“So, tell us there now, young Jacques,” said Charles, with a quick turn of his head, “what’s the Governor’s friend’s daughter like, hey?”
The question took me by surprise. But one of the things I liked about their conversation was how direct they were. They weren’t afraid to say anything.
“Um … well, I guess she’s like anyone else.”
I knew that wasn’t true but didn’t know what else to say.
“She can’t be. Come on, now, a beautiful thing like that. What’s it like to talk with her? What do you say to her?”
“The same thing I say to anybody else, I guess, except maybe …”
“Yah?”
“Except maybe more gently.”
“Well, of course.”
“And what’s it like talking to the Governor then?” said Louis. “Now, he must be an angry sort of man to talk to. Make you shake in your boots?”
“Oh, no, not at all. He’s as easygoing as can be. He’s pretty sick, though.”
“Oh, come on now, it’s the Governor. Isn’t he yelling at you?”
“No, he’s actually pretty friendly.”
“Friendly?” said Charles.
“Yes.”
“The Governor’s friendly?”
“Well, he is with me. Actually, he doesn’t talk much.”
“Are we talking about the same Governor there, Jacques?”
“There’s only one Governor, Charles,” said Pierre.
“I know there’s only one Governor, stupid,” said Charles. “I was only saying that for emphasis.”
“What’s emphasis?”
“It’s … never mind. But what do you do, Jacques? You teach her to play the fiddle, do yah?”
“You play the fiddle, Jacques?” said Louis.
“Actually I play the violoncello.”
“I play the fiddle,” said Pierre, as if he hadn’t heard my answer. “Now that’s the way for a man to spend his days, playing the fiddle in the company of pretty women. What do you say, Jacques, eh?”
“I guess so.”
The three of them la
ughed.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Pierre, and his eyes pierced the woods to the right and left of us as if seeking escape. “As soon as we get done with killing all these English down here, we’ll sit down and drink a gallon of rum and play the fiddle all night. What do you say to that, Jacques?”
“I guess so.”
They laughed again. But I was curious about something.
“Umm … Charles?”
“Yes, my son?”
“If you don’t mind my asking, could you … would you … tell me … how many men you have killed?”
“Lord Almighty! You want to know how many men I have killed?”
“Yes. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“Good Lord Almighty! Well, that’s not the sort of thing you ask a man, Jacques, how many men he has killed in his life. It’s kind of a personal question. But I suppose, since we’re here on our way to kill all these English, and, since we’re brothers in arms and all, I suppose I could share that intensely private information with you.”
I noticed that Louis and Pierre were listening closely too.
“Well, let’s see now. I can’t count that young fellah who fell off the pier next to me because it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t swim. And Fredric, now, he died of internal bleeding after a nasty fight. But that wasn’t my fault either, ’cause I didn’t start it. Let me see … if I consider that … and that … and him … and, well … I suppose all in all total, I guess I’ve never actually killed anybody per se.”
“You haven’t killed anybody?”
“Come to think of it, I guess not.”
He looked surprised at his own answer.
“And you, Louis,” I asked. “How many have you killed?”
Louis looked embarrassed. “Ahhhh … none.”
“You haven’t killed anybody either?”
“Nope. Not a single one.”
“And you, Pierre?”
He pulled out a cross from around his neck and kissed it. “No, thanks be to the Lord, I haven’t killed nobody.”
We walked along in silence.
“But we sure are going to kill those English!” burst out Louis after a while.
“Don’t you know it,” said Charles. “We’re going to blast them to Kingdom Come.”
Chapter Sixteen
The bears had grown fat over the summer. They feasted on the same diet Two-feathers was eating: berries, fish, roots and seeds. But the bears showed no waning of appetite. The more mature among them knew only too well what a winter would bring, what being without food would do to their bodies and how thin they would be when they emerged from their caves in the spring. And so, they kept continually on the move in the wooded hills, rooting through every corner to taste the fruits of the season of plenty.
The bears did not seem alarmed when Two-feathers appeared among them. So attuned to the woods was he, he did not bring into their world any sounds, sights, smells or movements that might disturb them. He did, in fact, act as bear-like as possible, without challenging their ownership of the area. He kept a respectable distance until they got used to him enough to ignore him. And all the while he prayed to the great bear spirit.
He asked for permission to kill an old bear. He explained why he needed the coat and promised to honour the bear by making a neckpiece out of its claws and wearing it on ceremonial occasions. Two-feathers wanted the largest coat he could find. He also wanted to make bear-fur leggings. With such clothes he would be able to sit comfortably in his den in the wintertime. He would sleep with warmth and not shiver. He also asked for the strength and swiftness to kill the bear but not for the courage. The courage he promised to provide himself. He knew that the great bear spirit would not take him seriously if he came asking for courage. It was a very long prayer that went on for days. Two-feathers wanted to impress the spirit with his sincerity.
But killing a bear was no small feat. Typically, warriors killed a bear together, not alone. Two-feathers crafted ten strong arrows with heavy stone tips. These were short-range arrows designed to sink deeply into the bear. If he managed to get five of them into the bear he would do well. Then he fashioned a long spear, not for throwing but for stabbing. The arrows would wound and enrage the bear but not kill it, at least not right away. Only the spear into the bear’s heart would kill it before the bear killed him. An old bear would be slower than a young bear but smarter, and that made it more dangerous.
It took several days to choose the right bear. When he saw it, he knew right away. So did the bear. It returned Two-feathers’ look with a stare of profound resignation. It didn’t run from him, though it looked like it would have liked to. Instead, it tried to scare him away with a show of strength. It stood tall on its hind legs and scratched at the trees to indicate its impressive height. It growled low and deep and as frighteningly as possible. It grabbed hold of fallen logs with its claws and tossed them around like they were dry leaves. None of this intimidated Two-feathers. He stayed around as if they had made a sacred pact, which they had in a way, because the bear had also communicated in its first frightened glance at him that it was old and tired and ready to leave this world for the pleasures of the next. Nevertheless, its dignity required it to go out with an impressive display of strength.
When Two-feathers finished his preparations and prayers he spoke to the bear from across a clearing. He offered his most sincere apology and thanked the bear for its great generosity. He told it he was proud to fight such a powerful bear. It would be sad before and after the killing, he said, for both of them, but not during the fighting. During the fighting everything was courage.
The first arrow struck the bear at the top of the shoulder and pierced the muscle. The bear flinched, as if stung by a bee, then spun around in great anger. Before it could charge, a second arrow struck close to the same spot, deeply wounding the shoulder. Now the bear felt panic and rage. It began to run towards Two-feathers. Two-feathers stood his ground and let a third arrow fly, but the wily bear ducked beneath it and the arrow only grazed its head. The bear was dangerously close. Two-feathers let fly a fourth arrow and it sank into the bear’s neck, without showing any effect. Two-feathers started to run, then turned and let one more arrow fly, piercing the shoulder once again. This time the shoulder collapsed and the bear rolled into a somersault. It rose to its feet, breathing heavily, and moaned. Two-feathers sank another arrow into its neck, this time right under the jaw. The bear twisted its head side to side and tried to pull the arrow free with its claws. Two-feathers ran to the side to get a better shot. A seventh arrow slipped through the fur on top of the bear’s head. The bear stared at him, panting heavily, wanting it to be over. It charged again, but it was a desperate charge, without conviction. Two-feathers aimed carefully and let his eighth arrow fly. The arrow went deeply into the other shoulder and the bear went down again. Two-feathers came closer and aimed once more for the neck. The arrow disappeared into the fur and the bear began to choke on its own blood. The end was near.
Out of respect, Two-feathers tried to kill the bear as quickly as he could. But it wasn’t easy. He approached with the spear, but the bear kept spinning around, preventing him from getting a shot at its heart. He needed the spear to pierce the heart, otherwise the bear would die very slowly, which was unkind. He tried to stir the bear by sinking one more arrow into its shoulder. But the bear only winced in pain and acceptance of its coming death. Two-feathers couldn’t get closer.
Standing, facing the bear, feeling that he owed it a quicker death than this, Two-feathers suddenly ran in and stabbed at it with the spear. But the bear showed the wisdom of its years and turned so that the spear missed it entirely. Suddenly the situation turned very dangerous for Two-feathers. He was too close. He had no arrows left. He could not outrun even a wounded bear. With a powerful burst of energy the bear sprang at him. Two-feathers could only draw his knife and strik
e for the heart as the bear knocked him to the ground.
His knife struck the heart on the second stabbing, but not before the bear mauled him with its claws and teeth. The teeth were not the problem; the arrows in the bear’s throat prevented it from causing Two-feathers much harm that way. But its claws dug deeply into his chest. If he had not struck the heart with the knife the bear would have killed him before it died. But the bear died first. Two-feathers felt its last breath leave and the bear lie still. He crawled out and examined his wounds. The gashes were deep and he was bleeding a lot but he would survive. He would have scars, but would wear them with honour, in memory of the bear.
He offered a prayer of gratitude to the bear and complimented it for its courage and cunning. He wished it a happy life in the next world. Then he went to the river to wash out his wounds and dress them. He gathered mud and plants and made a paste and applied it to his skin. The wounds began to sting. He laughed. The bear had not been willing to leave without giving him a taste of his own medicine. Fair enough, he thought.
It was extremely painful for him to skin the bear but he did not want to wait for fear other animals would come and dishonour the bear by ripping it apart and scattering its bones. Carefully, painstakingly, he cut the pelt off the bear in one piece and removed the claws. Then he made a firepit and lined it with stones. He collected wood, ignited a large fire and dragged the bear’s skinned body onto it. All night he burned the bear, adding wood continually and sitting close by and offering prayers of gratitude. By the morning there was nothing left but bones. He gathered them and made a pile in a trough in the river, where no animals would ever disturb them. Then he began the difficult task of scraping the pelt.
He tied the pelt between two trees and stretched it tight. With his knife he began to scrape the flesh from the inside of the pelt until he got down to a smooth under-layer of skin that would dry soft and comfortable against his own skin. The fur on the other side was heavy and thick, the warmest covering known to him. Exhausted from his work and wounds, Two-feathers stayed by the stretched bear pelt for several more days, protecting it and letting it dry. When it was ready he cut it down, rolled it up, strapped it to his back and began the journey back to the swamp.
