The dog had fallen silent. Was he dead? Footsteps pounded behind her. There she stood at the ravine Nicolas had plunged into. Her desperate plan had led her there, as if that abyss could offer her safety.
She jumped between two bushes, threw herself on the ground, rolled on her stomach and, without a backward glance, let herself slide down the steep slope. This time she didn’t try to slow her pace, and the stones that tumbled down and accompanied her descent didn’t stop her any more than did the brambles that caught her dress.
Above, her pursuers were momentarily confused by her disappearance. They were in enemy territory. The woman had sounded the alarm. Was it worth the risk of following her into the ravine?
The sound of breaking branches, then shouts growing nearer, announced that help was on the way. A lone Indian let himself slide down after Jeanne. Less hurried than she was, he broke his fall and studied the way down.
Once he reached the bottom he turned around slowly, searching the hard stones and the tangle of dead trees for traces of his victim’s path.
Up above, Simon had wings. Alerted by the shot, he picked up his gun without dropping his axe and bounded through the forest. Limp, forgetting his infirmity, was right behind him. Rouville met the children on their way back to the house; panic was on their faces, but he didn’t slow his pace. Gansagonas would intercept them and take them back to safety. It was Jeanne he had to find. He, too, fired a shot into the air to tell her he was coming.
The alarm signal had come from the north. In that direction the path bordered the ravine. With unfailing instinct he hurtled along, leaping obstacles, making as much noise as possible and letting out his death cry, his specialty when he attacked. It always helped to rattle his enemies.
The last Iroquois wheeled around and waited for the assault. With a sudden turn Simon dodged him, leaving him to Mathurin who was coming along more slowly but making just as much noise.
Rouville stepped over the struggling forms of an Indian and Miraud. Near the ravine two of the enemy stood side by side to face the unleashed fury of Simon de Rouville in combat.
He hit one Indian over the head with the butt of his long musket, sending him toppling into the void with a loud scream. The other Iroquois threw himself on Simon, who had jumped aside so his momentum wouldn’t send him into the ravine.
A gunshot behind him proved that Limp and his Iroquois had finally met. Simon and his foe rolled on the ground a few inches from the abyss. Each one was trying to send the other over the edge. The two fighters dropped both tomahawk and axe, useless in hand-to-hand combat. The thought of Jeanne gave Simon new strength. His forearm, pressed against his adversary’s throat, was slowly choking him. The Indian was trying to push back Simon’s head with his palm. His right hand, caught in Simon’s iron grip, was nailed to the ground.
Limp burst onto the battlefield, hopping on one foot, using his musket as a crutch. He was out of breath but still full of spirit. He pulled his knife and limped forward. It had been a few years since he had taken part in a fight, despite his bellicose spirit. Simon and he were old comrades-in-arms and fellow adventurers, and they had shared many dangers together. They understood each other with scarcely a word being spoken.
“Leave this one to me,” Mathurin said, panting. He raised his dagger over the Indian who was temporarily stunned by the pressure on his neck.
Without a word, Simon released his man. He rolled aside and let himself slide into the ravine as quickly and recklessly as his wife had a short time before.
At the bottom, he called “Jeanne” once, briefly, then he listened.
Near her hide-out, Jeanne had heard the loud and horrible fall of the body tumbling from above. Already her pursuer had reached the bottom of the ravine. Cowering under the tall tree where she had spent a night with Nicolas, she lay low, holding her quick breath and praying Simon would arrive before the Indian found her. Her only weapon was a dead branch, since her musket and knife had disappeared in her tumble.
She spotted the man’s legs. He was searching for her systematically, without a word; only his panting breath gave him away.
Jeanne had heard Simon’s call but did not dare raise her voice. The Iroquois stood between them, knife in hand. She retreated another inch and, crouching at the bottom of the hole, she waited. No sound reached her ears. She had the feeling this senseless adventure was all a dream, that the sun could never shine on such horror. Was this the same panic the mother partridge felt last summer when she turned circles to lead her enemies away from her endangered babies?
Jeanne, who had borrowed the mother partridge’s trick, would have liked to ask her for her courage as well. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream of terror. The branches parted. Her breath caught in her throat as a triumphant face with implacable eyes loomed before her.
Despite the stick she was waving, the Iroquois grabbed her wrist and twisted it, making her drop her club. In one sudden movement that propelled her to her enemy’s feet, Jeanne felt herself being pulled from her hiding-place.
“Simon!” she finally cried, recovering the faculty of speech too late.
She was filled with rage at the thought of dying so stupidly just when she had found happiness, when the sky was so radiant. The friendly sun glanced gaily off the blade raised over the king’s daughter, who was fighting like a wild beast, biting, spitting, swearing. Her hair in her eyes, she struggled for all she was worth. Her enemy gave ground, then again the hand grabbed her and shook her. All claws out, she managed to clamp her teeth onto a wrist. She did not hear the voice that was calling her. A resounding slap that sent her breathless to the ground brought her back to reality.
Simon was on his knees in front of her, straddling the body of the Iroquois.
He gasped, “My God, your teeth are sharper than a wolf’s. And where did you learn that language?”
Blood was flowing from his wrist, but little by little a dazzling smile spread across his tense features. He had just remembered that he and his trapper friends had been his gentle wife’s professors of profane eloquence. The student was no lady, thank goodness. Who needed a woman who put on airs in the forest?
Weak and defenceless after the danger, Jeanne let herself be carried in his familiar arms. Man and wife were both literally in tatters, their clothes torn and their arms and legs skinned.
This time the climb was slow and painful. Mathurin was waiting for them at the top, furious with himself. At the last moment, his Iroquois had slipped between his fingers.
The one Miraud had intercepted so effectively was not to be found either. His flight was marked by bloodstains.
The big dog, his shoulder gashed by a tomahawk, agreed to be treated by Jeanne. She gave him a grateful kiss on the forehead.
The two seasoned coureurs de bois studied the fallen Iroquois and came to the conclusion it was probably an isolated group of young braves. Impatient at not being able to prove their valour in official raids, they had smeared themselves with war paint and ventured into the territory at the most dangerous time for them, when the hunters were working their fields and could defend their families.
It was safe to say that this was an isolated attack, not likely to be repeated. Just to be sure, Simon sent for Anonkade and another Huron, and he entrusted them with the safety of his family for the winter.
33
THE CANOE glided silently between two walls of flaming trees. Once again, October was celebrating its passage with an orgy of fantastic colours.
Sitting in the bottom of the boat between two close-mouthed Indians, Jeanne compared this present voyage with last year’s. At that time she hardly knew Monsieur de Rouville and had studied him with mistrust. Now she knew him, loved him and was flying to his rescue.
Simon, her Simon, was somewhere in the forest, seriously wounded. The Hurons with whom he hunted had come to fetch the heal
er. Carrot-Top had sent them, while he stayed with his leader. It was impossible to drag any information out of these Indians of Algonquin origin, whose dialect she couldn’t understand.
They had come forth like shadows, conferred with Anonkade and waited patiently while their passenger assembled some clothes, blankets, her medicine bag and her two remaining cotton petticoats.
Nicolas loaned his cap again.
Dressed as a boy, draped in her cape and carrying her wolfskin coat, Jeanne took her place in the canoe without knowing where she was going or what she would find when she got there. Either the Indians were fond of Simon or else he didn’t have long to live, because they paddled day and night without stopping, relieving each other in the back while one of them caught some sleep in the middle. Sitting in front, Jeanne lamented her lack of experience that rendered her useless.
Fervent prayers rose heavenward. Once again, Honoré Chatel, Mother Berthelet and François were asked to intercede.
“Grandfather, Grandfather, tell God not to call Simon to his hunting paradise right away. Give me a few more years, a few more months. Leave him with me.”
When the canoe headed towards the bank of a little river at the end of the afternoon of the second day, there was nothing to indicate the presence of a camp.
The Indian tied the canoe to a branch and made a sign for Jeanne to jump out. In an instant the baggage was unloaded and the large canoe hidden and invisible. As silently as possible, on a thick carpet of dead leaves, the three of them moved into the forest. Weighed down by her bag, which she clutched as if it were a life preserver, Jeanne walked forward like an automaton. In her imagination she had already reached her journey’s end, and she had pictured every possibility that might await her so none could disconcert her.
Carrot-Top was blocking the way, but he stood aside and spread the branches. A stream ran between the fir trees. At the foot of a birch stood a shelter made of skins and bark, ten feet long and six feet wide. Nearby was a campfire, the crossed branches above it supporting the iron pot indispensable to all campers.
With a glance, Jeanne asked Carrot-Top the question her lips did not dare speak. He motioned to the shelter, lifted up the skin door and said simply, “He’s waiting for you.”
Putting her bag on the ground, Jeanne bent and knelt beside the injured man stretched out on a bed of leaves. She had been prepared for everything except this emaciated, bearded face, these closed eyes sunk into their sockets, this mouth contorted with pain, this rasping, irregular breathing.
Simon was lying on his back. His long thin body, naked to the waist, was covered with an old blanket. His arms were stretched above his head and fastened by the wrists to a leather strap that encircled the trunk of the birch. He turned his head ceaselessly from side to side, and pulled at the bonds tearing into his flesh.
Indignant, Jeanne was already taking out her knife to free him when Carrot-Top, who had squatted down across from her on the other side of Simon, motioned for her to stop.
“It’s necessary. Without it, he tears off his bandages in his delirium and hurts himself. Also, often he doesn’t recognize me and he attacks me. He’s still very strong.”
“What’s the matter with him?” whispered Jeanne, her heart seized with apprehension.
Carrot-Top pulled back the blanket and uncovered the tanned, emaciated torso. A dirty bandage had been awkwardly wound around the injured man’s heaving chest.
“It was an Iroquois ambush,” Carrot-Top explained. “They surprised us much farther north. We managed to escape them, but a Huron and Belzile died. Simon got an arrow in his side but he had to run, crawl and paddle for a long time in spite of it. When we were far enough away, I tried to get the arrow out. I didn’t succeed. The second time I tried, he got mad and hit me over the head. Then he asked to be taken south. When we got here, he couldn’t go any farther. He said to me, ‘Go and get Jeanne.’ I didn’t dare leave him alone. I sent the Algonquins. That’s all there is to tell.”
Jeanne was already getting down to work. She took off the bandage stuck to his flesh and asked, “When did it happen?”
“I don’t really know.”
Carrot-Top was haggard and exhausted, too. “Six days ago, a week. I forget. Maybe less.”
Simon groaned and opened his feverish eyes. His pupils were dilated. He gazed at the anxious face bending over him. With effort he spoke in the plaintive voice of those who have suffered greatly and long.
“Jeanne, help me. Jeanne, do something.”
The proud man’s supplication moved Jeanne even more than the sight of his tortured face. As she would to a sick child, she repeated in a calm, reassuring voice while she examined the horrible wound, “I’m here, Simon. I’m going to cure you. You won’t hurt anymore. I’m going to help you. You’ll go back home and everything will be fine.”
Her laudable optimism was entirely verbal. Her throat tight, she looked at the infected wound from which emerged the broken end of the Iroquois arrow.
Burning with fever, Simon closed his eyes again and turned his head aside.
Should she wait until daylight to remove the projectile that made every breath so painful? When a person is suffering so much, time drags on forever.
Once her resolution was made, Jeanne went into action. She issued orders and instructions in the spirit of Thérèse de Bretonville.
The three men carried water and set it to boil in the well-scrubbed pot. They doubled the size of the fire, the best source of light. Jeanne inspected her very inadequate instruments. Fortunately, she had the tongs the blacksmith had given her.
A while later she took Carrot-Top aside. His freckled face was pale with emotion.
“Listen, Carrot-Top. You keep talking to me, encourage me, distract me so I won’t hear him and so I won’t weaken. You know, I’m not a very good healer yet and I’m afraid.”
“I understand,” Carrot-Top said. His simple soul urged him to take an impulsive action. Squeezing Jeanne’s arm, he added confidentially, “The important thing, madame, is that you are here.”
The magic phrase that had transformed his life he now offered as a talisman. The two accomplices smiled weakly at each other.
Finally everything was ready. The sides of the tent were rolled up to let in the light and the heat. Two flaming resin torches planted in the ground lit the gloomy scene. Sitting on her heels beside her husband, Jeanne faced the fire. One last time she mentally reviewed everything she would have to do, digging into her memories of Sister Bourgeoys’s operation and into her own very inadequate experience. Once she began, she must not hesitate.
Her sleeves were tied up, her hands washed, her instruments laid out beside her. The petticoats cut into bandages were properly rolled. The white thread was there as well as the pine gum gathered during the full moon by old Hippolyte.
Simon watched these preparations. His pale sea-green eyes were still strangely luminous. Despite his parched lips, he tried to smile, both to give her courage and to ask for it in return.
For the past hour Carrot-Top had been making the injured man swallow mouthfuls of brandy, the remains of the bottle borrowed from the dead man at Quatre-Ruisseaux. Monsieur de Rouville hadn’t completely emptied it that day and, like any practical woman, Jeanne had kept it.
The heaviest Algonquin sat on the injured man’s legs to hold him down. By his head, kneeling on his outstretched arms, Carrot-Top held the piece of wood he would slip between Simon’s teeth as Jeanne had told him to. Even if the firelight indicated their presence, it would be dangerous to tip off potential enemies with screams that could carry very far in the silence of the night.
Jeanne set to work rapidly to shorten her husband’s agony. Carrot-Top’s voice sustained her, though she did not hear the words he said.
The tongs slipped, slid off the end of the arrow, then took hold again. Calling f
or strength from heaven, Jeanne pulled with every muscle in her body. Finally, after an eternity of effort, the projectile lodged under the bone in Simon’s side was torn from his flesh.
Simon shuddered, writhed, then pushed against the ground, his jaws clamped on the piece of wood. He struggled long, only to collapse into unconsciousness at last, relieving the others as much as himself.
Now he was resting under the wolfskin coat. In the heat of the fire, his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his breathing was almost imperceptible. Stretched out beside him, Jeanne kept a vigil, attentive to his slightest breath. Her part was done. Providence and nature would do the rest.
For three days and three nights, Monsieur de Rouville was delirious and believed he was a prisoner of the Iroquois. He swore at them, embarrassing Carrot-Top, who blushed crimson. At other times the rough life led by Monsieur de Rouville, trapper and builder, passed before his eyes.
All the solitude and exile of the winters in the forest and the disappointment of his first marriage came out in his wandering speech. The death of Aimée and his baby haunted him.
Jeanne’s name recurred constantly. Her undemonstrative husband who did not know how to say “I love you” said it in a hundred different ways, in broken phrases.
When he struggled too much in the bonds they were forced to retighten, Jeanne washed his tormented face and spoke to him gently, as she had to Nicolas during the night they had spent under a tree. Passively, her patient swallowed potions, water or soup, only to vomit them up the next minute. Tireless, Jeanne cleaned him and started all over.
Now and then Carrot-Top made her take a few hours’ rest while he did his best to take her place.
On the morning of the fourth day, Simon opened his eyes, turned his head and looked at his wife; she was pale and had circles under her eyes. She was sleeping in a sitting position, her head on her bent knees. Warned by her sixth sense, she, too, opened her eyes and rose painfully to her feet, her back aching.
A ghost of his authoritarian voice ordered, “Go get some sleep right now. And untie me. I won’t run away.”
The King's Daughter Page 16
