Jeanne became suddenly busy, wrapping her handkerchief around her victim’s head. Charron examined the other assailants and came back to them.
“I’d get going before these bastards come to. There might be other...misunderstandings. Come on, I’ll give you a bit of an escort. Pick up your things.”
“My window!” Jeanne cried, bounding over to the door. It was intact. With great care she picked it up and held it in front of her leaving her husband to get up as best he could by holding onto a tree.
Charron retrieved the musket and slung it over his shoulder next to his own. Then, still laughing, he put the frying pan into Simon’s shaky hand.
“Carry this, Rouville. If anyone attacks you, you can defend yourself.”
And that’s how Jeanne found her glazed window and Monsieur de Rouville, the dreaded Ongue Hegahrahoiotie of the Iroquois, returned home lying in the bottom of his canoe, clutching his head in both hands and fortifying himself from time to time with a mouthful of medicinal brandy.
Meanwhile, Charron, in fine humour, taught the pretty Madame de Rouville how to paddle a canoe. He predicted a brilliant future for her on the rivers of Canada.
23
FAITHFUL TO HIS promise, Simon took his son on a short excursion to hunt for small game. The child, armed with a wooden rifle skilfully carved by Mathurin, went off proudly, an empty sack over his shoulder. With his fur cap and fringed leather suit Gansagonas had made him, he was a miniature replica of his father.
At the end of the day, the hunters returned, triumphant. Simon walked along in long, easy strides, forcing Nicolas, exhausted and burdened by the big sack overflowing with hares and partridges, to run along at his heels. Too tired to eat, the child, still proud as punch, fell asleep with his nose in his plate. His father laid him on the straw bed in the loft and covered him carefully with the bearskin blanket.
“You’re asking too much from him,” Jeanne took him to task. She was beginning to think her projects for bringing father and son together had their less desirable side.
“Set your mind at ease, Mother Hen, I’m not the brute you think I am. I carried both the hunter and the game most of the way back. But that, obviously, was to be kept secret. When we reached the old oak we both assumed our roles again. He’ll be good in the woods,” Simon concluded, pleasantly surprised at his discovery.
“Who could he have gotten that from?” Jeanne retorted teasingly, an innocent look on her face.
The next day Simon and Anonkade, the Huron, left, this time to bag a moose. Monsieur de Rouville wanted to smoke a lot of meat for the winter. The expedition was to last two days or more, depending on the luck of the hunt.
Abandoned and disconsolate, Nicolas watched them go. His little form, topped by the enormous fur cap, looked ridiculously like a large mushroom. Jeanne’s heart softened. Miraud sat whimpering next to his young master; he seemed as disappointed as Nicolas that he could not follow the hunters. Gansagonas had been gone since dawn gathering certain dried herbs and roots found only at that time of the year. Jeanne was planning to get an explanation of their properties during the winter, when the intimacy of the warm house would melt the Huron woman’s reserve and overcome her exasperating silence. Limp was away; he’d gone with Carrot-Top, who had come to borrow him for a few days.
Jeanne was making corn cakes with her usual vigour. Every bit as busy, Isabelle put her doll to bed in the cradle Simon had built her. Zeanne, warmly covered with a rabbit skin Gansagonas had tanned, was listening patiently to the endless stories her young mother told her.
At noon a delicious smell of warm cakes filled the cabin. Jeanne opened the door and called Nicolas, who was a great trencherman. Mealtime always tore him away from his fascinating games.
This time the child did not appear when she called. Even the shrill whistle that usually made Miraud come flying home produced no result.
Worried, Jeanne circled the house, musket in hand. With a sinking heart, she went to the river bank. The canoe was there, but not Nicolas. Even if the little boy had hidden out of spite because he had not been invited to go hunting, his still undisciplined dog would have answered Jeanne’s whistle, since she always had delicious surprises in store for him.
In real anguish she dressed Isabelle, put on her grey cape and, with the loaded gun over her shoulder, started along the path, calling and stopping frequently to listen. Soon she had to carry her tired daughter in her arms. With this burden, Jeanne visited all the familiar places where Nicolas might have taken refuge.
At the foot of the big oak, full of hope, Jeanne lay Isabelle in her cape; the little girl had fallen asleep. Remembering the escapades of her youth, she decided to climb once again. Perhaps Nicolas had a ship or a chateau up there, despite his young age. She did not see how he could have reached the first fork. It was even out of her reach, but you could expect anything from ingenious Simon’s son.
And from his wife, too. Jeanne had soon leaned a big dead branch against the trunk. With all the agility of a ten-year-old girl, the poacher’s granddaughter confidently climbed the tree. A familiar longing filled her and made her forget for a moment why she was climbing. From the top she saw the brilliant ribbon of the river winding in the distance, curving in front of the Rouville property. She had to face the facts: Nicolas could not be in the oak tree.
Disappointed, Jeanne resumed her search. Twice she returned to the cabin in hopes of finding the repentant runaway there. Around five o’clock she met Gansagonas coming home through the woods, loaded down like a mule.
The Huron woman met the news of Nicolas’s disappearance without batting an eyelash. She set her burden down, bent over the path, inspected the underbrush and announced haltingly, “No tracks. Dead leaves hide. Evening come. We go home.”
She took Isabelle firmly from Jeanne’s arms. The little girl had been crying softly for hours, aware of her adoptive mother’s nervousness.
But Jeanne, exhausted, could not persuade herself to abandon Nicolas. She pictured his frail little form, his pale eyes so like Simon’s. A fine rain began to fall, and the thought of the child alone in the terrifying forest filled her with horror.
She left Gansagonas and Isabelle in the cabin, slipped a few cakes and a piece of cold meat into her pocket and went out into the twilight. A sudden inspiration made her climb the old oak once more. Clinging firmly to the highest branch, she took a shot into the air. She reloaded it as quickly as she could in her unstable position and fired two more shots. She hoped from that height the echo would not be muffled by the trees and would carry her call for help to the hunters.
Before climbing down again she nibbled on a cake, pulling up her hood for shelter from the persistent rain. Where could a little boy hide, disappointed at being left behind? Trying to remember her own childhood, Jeanne thought long and hard.
Suddenly she remembered the very deep ravine they had walked along one day with Simon. Pointing out the depths of the abyss one hundred feet below, he had said, “Sometimes in the winter, moose and deer fall into this hole and sink into the soft snow. You find their skeletons in the spring.”
Could it be that Nicolas, who never missed a thing, had decided to go all by himself to look for a moose of his own? Jeanne picked her skirts up and ran through the trees, hurrying before the darkness fell completely. Confident that she would be able to get her bearings in the woods—as she had done so many times at her grandfather’s side—the imprudent girl didn’t think of her own safety or the hazards in the Canadian forest, much more dangerous than the overgrown estate in Troyes.
Carried along by her zeal, she nearly fell head first into the very ravine she was looking for.
Her musket caught on a branch and stopped her, one foot dangling in space. Far below, she heard the stones she had dislodged falling down the slope.
She leaned over the abyss and called again, “Nicolas, Nicola
s!”
Her clear voice echoed and re-echoed in the night, tipping off the Indians—if there were any—that a foolhardy white woman was near.
Now Jeanne gave the low whistle that always brought Miraud running. From the distance muffled barking reached her ears, barely perceptible. Straining her senses, she repeated her call and heard the same response. Miraud was somewhere below at the bottom of the ravine, and Nicolas, too, most likely. Perhaps the little boy was unconscious or injured, or even dead. Shuddering, Jeanne pictured—as if it were there before her—the little lifeless body, shattered on the rocks.
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and now she made out the bushes and rocks strewn here and there on the steep incline. She would have to take this hazardous path. What about the musket? Burden herself or abandon it? The danger below was not the type you confront with a weapon. Agility counted now.
She hung the gun on a branch and pushed back her cape, heavy with rain. Then she turned around, got down on all fours and slid backward down the slope that grew steeper and steeper. The wet branches slipped through her grasping fingers, and stones rolled from under her rough shoes and cascaded beneath her skinned knees. Often she slid flat on her stomach, desperately trying to break her fall. It seemed to her this descent into the underworld lasted for hours.
Her hands bloodied, face scratched, hair standing straight up, she found herself on her knees at the bottom of the ravine. Her ears were filled with the sobs of her own laborious breathing. Painfully rising to her feet, she whistled again, softly.
The stifled response came to her from so close by that she jumped in terror. In the blackness she heard Miraud’s tail thumping and the dog’s desperate efforts to reach her. The string with which Nicolas held him in the woods to keep him from chasing rabbits must have been caught somewhere.
Guided by the sound, she went forward, hands stretched out before her, dragging her feet on the ground. She stumbled on rocks, stepped over fallen tree trunks and caused a small nocturnal animal, just as surprised as she was, to scurry away noisily. Miraud whimpered constantly, directing her blind search.
Finally she reached him near an enormous dead tree. As she had suspected, the string was wrapped around a branch. His warm tongue licked her face and hands as, on all fours, she groped around the dog, calling softly, “Nicolas. Where are you, Nicolas? Don’t be afraid, it’s Mama. Nicolas, answer me.”
“Mama,” murmured a small trembling voice.
Jeanne cried out joyfully and wrapped her arms around the frail little form lying between two rocks.
“You’re hurting me,” he groaned tearfully. “Mama. I don’t want to go hunting anymore. Take me home.”
By a stroke of luck, the moon came out just then, casting a vague light on the bottom of the abyss. Even the moon’s rays were filtered down there. Making her hands as light as possible, she examined the child from head to toe. He was soaking wet, feverish and, judging from his moans and the angle of his wrist, he had a broken arm. Jeanne knew very well that moving him before daylight was out of the question. With determination, she got busy preparing for their vigil.
Once more she put to use one of the six large handkerchiefs from her trousseau. Louis XIV would be delighted to know how useful his gifts were, she thought, as she made a splint with straight branches and the square piece of cotton. She tore off a corner of her skirt and wiped the child’s burning face as he clung to her. She pushed aside the branches of a dead tree near where Nicolas had rolled, and she discovered a relatively dry spot under this makeshift shelter. She set the injured boy inside in her cape; now she was thankful for its cumbersome size.
Imitating Gansagonas, she folded a leaf and patiently held out her hand in the increasing rain. She collected a few drops of water to quench the child’s thirst. They shared the remaining corn cake and the cold meat; Miraud had his share, too.
Then Jeanne called the dog, who came to press his body against them. All three huddled together in the king’s daughter’s cape, almost frozen to death, waiting for daybreak. At times Nicolas was delirious; at others he trembled with fear. In a low voice Jeanne told him all the amusing stories in her repertory. Soon the child’s curly head fell heavily onto his mother’s enveloping arm. Jeanne counted the hours, listened to the rustling of the shadows and, in spite of her worries and discomfort, rediscovered the serenity of a night in the forest she had loved so much.
She forgot her resolve to stand fiercely on guard. She, too, fell asleep, exhausted.
This was the touching scene Simon discovered in the morning: his wife and son, dirty and covered in blood, asleep in each other’s arms. Miraud, the only one in good shape, did not budge. He seemed to know it was his job to keep them warm.
Alerted by the distant gunshots, the hunters had scoured the woods all night. Daylight enabled them to make out tracks, and the musket hanging on a branch led the rescuers to the bottom of the ravine.
Anonkade climbed up with Nicolas strapped on his back. Simon pushed and pulled Jeanne to scale the steep cliff; her agility surprised him. In broad daylight, overcome by vertigo, she was thankful the darkness had hidden the dangers of the descent the night before. Her husband insisted on carrying her in his arms all the way to the cabin. And even if she was fully capable of making the trip on foot, Jeanne let herself relax against his strong chest, listening to his wildly beating heart. For the first time in her life, she said to herself that there must be some advantages to being weak and defenseless. Since that was how Simon persisted in thinking of her, she would play the role successfully—more or less.
Impassive, Gansagonas greeted them in front of the door.
“She was very worried,” Simon assured his skeptical wife. Could he read the Indian’s innermost thoughts?
Jeanne dipped into her big bag of medicines and prepared a sleeping draught for Nicolas. Helped by Simon—who was pale under his tan—she reset Nicolas’s wrist and fashioned a splint with some small boards that looked almost as professional as the ones Sister Bourgeoys made.
Assured of his family’s fate, and seeing Limp return from his excursion, Monsieur de Rouville went off again. With the Huron on his heels, he went to get the meat from the moose they had killed the previous day.
24
FOR TWO DAYS Simon, Mathurin and the two Hurons had been smoking meat in a cabin prepared for this job behind the house. All four were bustling about, and they turned down Jeanne’s help.
Isabelle was sleeping and Nicolas, still feverish, was lying on the big bed with Miraud. It was one of those surprise days the autumn sometimes has in store for Canadians, when a summery sun sends out its warming rays.
At loose ends, since she didn’t dare make any noise in the house, Jeanne went to sit by the water. The calm river reflected the bare trees. Only a few obstinate leaves brightened up the dark wall of pines.
The canoe was lying upside down on the shore. Brimming over with energy, Jeanne decided to put trapper Charron’s paddling lessons discreetly into practice. No sooner thought than done.
The bark canoe was easy to turn over and push into the water. Following the advice she had been given, Jeanne took off her shoes. She left behind her cape that was too warm but, as Simon always did, she laid the inevitable musket at her feet in the bottom of the canoe.
A dexterous young woman, she remembered the instructions she had received and the easy movements Simon made as she watched him during their travels. Soon the canoe was moving forward, turning and going backwards, passively obeying the slightest dip of the paddle. It was really very simple; she didn’t see why Simon had made such an effort to keep her from learning. She moved out towards the middle of the river. If her husband could see her now, he would leave behind his ridiculous prejudices. She steered the canoe towards the shore and looked up. Simon was just coming around the corner of the house, his axe over his shoulder.
Jeanne raised a triumphant hand to wave to him. With no further warning, the canoe, once so passive, tipped over, sending its passenger into the icy water.
Her air cut off, she kicked her feet to resurface. Since she was eight, she had been swimming in the big pond in the Troyes forest. Contrary to what people thought in those days, her grandfather considered swimming an essential and healthy exercise. It is an art you do not soon forget.
The canoe was floating, half submerged, a little farther on. Something hard brushed Jeanne’s leg on its way to the bottom.
My musket! thought Jeanne, horror-struck.
That very precious weapon was irreplaceable. Gathering her courage and her breath, she dove after the gun. Fortunately, her already numb fingers closed over the barrel on her first attempt. Relieved, she came up and decided to swim to the canoe and push it to shore, not far away. She would get off with a cold and a scolding from her angry husband.
Just then she spotted him running down the slope, throwing aside his axe, musket and fur cap. He flew to her rescue, not realizing she was in no danger and could rescue herself very well.
As he ran, he shouted his encouragement, and his booming voice reached her ears.
“Wait for me, Aimée. I’m coming!”
Jeanne felt all her strength leave her. Gently she slipped under the icy water, pulled down by the weight of the gun she refused to drop. Her long, untied hair floated out behind her, and before her open eyes, the water grew darker and darker. She wanted to die. She was already dead. The man she loved preferred a memory to her.
An iron hand grabbed her arm, pulled her out of the water and held on to her securely. Unable to resist, the musket between her hands, Jeanne let herself be pulled to shore. Simon roughly turned her over onto her stomach and administered two resounding slaps on the back, making her cough up water.
The King's Daughter Page 11
