Simon was on the road to recovery. He was making rapid progress.
At the end of the week, the council of war from which Simon was excluded but which he dominated with his orders and advice, decided to return as quickly as possible to civilization before the cold and ice forced them to winter on the spot.
Stretched out in the bottom of the canoe, his head on Jeanne’s lap, Simon either slept soundly or demanded to be told stories he only half listened to.
“I’m wasting my time,” Jeanne finally burst out impatiently when he closed his eyes at the best part of her story of the “Knight of Azur.”
A blissful smile spread over Simon’s face, pale under his tan. He assured her, “Not at all, go on. It’s not the story that particularly interests me. It’s your voice and your choice of words.”
“Isn’t my choice of words right?”
“It’s adorable, just like you, scholarly and down-to-earth at the same time. What did the poor knight of Azur do when his girlfriend slammed the door of the chateau?”
Resigned, the storyteller took up her tale as she combed her husband’s short black beard with her fingers. It made him look like a pirate of the high seas. After five minutes, she fell silent. He was sleeping, and his hand, like Isabelle’s in her sleep, was clinging fast to the king’s daughter’s fingers.
34
SIMON’S CONVALESCENCE began with the first snow; he was making progress and getting worse at the same time. As he recovered his strength, the little house seemed to grow smaller. Soon Jeanne, exasperated, had the feeling the walls were about to burst from holding in so much energy under pressure.
To restore her patience while Simon grumbled against the cold, the snow, the logs in the fireplace and the heat, the mistress of the house hummed absent-mindedly:
Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime,
Jamais je ne t’oublierai...
An unexpected silence made her look up. Simon was sitting up in bed, his back against the wall, staring at her severely.
“What’s the matter now? Am I singing off-key?”
“Off-key wouldn’t matter. The song itself worries me.”
Too late, Jeanne realized that, for a few moments, she had become Jean Chatel again, the boy with the big ears who had learned much on his travels.
“Come over here right now and tell me how a lady like you could have heard—and most of all remembered—those verses. Forget that endless mending and sit here beside me. A husband has serious responsibilities, even if he is a cripple.”
Falsely submissive, Jeanne set her work aside. Through the window she spied Nicolas and Isabelle riding down the slope on their crude toboggan, Miraud chasing them. She settled down on the bed beside Simon, her head on his left shoulder to avoid the still-sensitive scar.
Monsieur de Rouville declared anxiously, “I cannot permit that kind of language under a roof that shelters a king’s daughter. And what will our future son say when he hears his mother singing like that?”
“It will be a girl, and you know it. She’ll think I’ve got a lot of spirit to sing in these conditions, with a husband like you within earshot to tell me what to do every step of the way. Come on. Put on your coat. We’re going for a walk in the snow. You’re pampering yourself.”
That was the most beautiful Christmas in the twenty years of Jeanne Chatel de Rouville’s eventful life.
Simon gave her a cradle he thought he had built without her knowing. She presented him with a fringed shirt she had made while he was taking his naps. Indiscreetly, he had kept his eyes half-open, secretly admiring her.
Nicolas and Isabelle solemnly recited the poems their mother had patiently taught them, and that their father had heard them stumble through a thousand times.
Miraud and the cat, side by side, warmed themselves in front of the fire.
Carrot-Top, Mathurin, Gansagonas and even the two Hurons, attracted by so much happiness and warmth, shared in the feast served on wooden plates. The little house nestled in the snow rang with laughter and song. Through the glass window, a ray of golden light spread its cheerful message onto the snow.
35
JEANNE AND Mathurin were notching the maple trees as they tried to predict the quantity of sugar they would produce this time. It was a good year for sap.
“It’s a good year for everything,” Jeanne decided. “Simon has recovered, Nicolas knows how to read, Isabelle doesn’t suck her thumb anymore, and I’m expecting a baby.”
Not to be left out, Limp added to the happy litany. “Miraud no longer chases rabbits. Gansagonas cured my rheumatism...in my legs, at least. My arm will need more poultices.”
Nicolas, who was carving the wooden pegs that would be stuck into the trunks, got into the act. “There are no more stones in the garden. Papa and Carrot-Top are going to bring back a lot of furs, even if they started too late. And Mama will have another boy.”
“I haven’t fallen into the water yet with my new fur-lined coat, and Mama will have another girl,” Isabelle added to this enumeration of good things.
Miraud stood up and turned towards the river. Was it visitors... or was it Father returning sooner than expected?
Everyone ran to the river bank, full of anticipation. Two canoes were passing, rapid and silent, full to the water line with people. Their frightened eyes glanced at the intrigued spectators without seeing them.
A third craft slowed down for a moment. Jeanne recognized the Bibeau family whose daughter had married the summer before.
Without raising his voice, the father said, “Iroquois. They’re everywhere. Run. They’re following us.”
His wife hushed him, thinking only of herself in her terror.
“Don’t waste time. Quick. Keep going. They’re going to catch us. They’re right behind.”
The Bibeaus hastened away in a panic.
Jeanne looked at Mathurin, her face ghastly pale. Miraud growled, his hackles raised, trembling with rage. She put her hand around his muzzle and whispered an order. “Children, lie down under the canoe. Don’t move.”
She pulled the dog with her behind a bush. Limp was already stretched out on the ground, his musket in front of him.
Four Iroquois appeared at the bend in the river, hunched over their paddles. Two other canoes followed right behind them. Almost crushed by Jeanne, Miraud was strangling in silent rage.
Without a glance at the whites crouched on the river bank, the Indians disappeared, gaining ground on their victims.
Motionless, the group waited. Ten minutes passed with no change. Cautiously Jeanne released the dog, who didn’t make a move. For the time being, there were no enemies in sight.
Mathurin motioned at the canoe with his chin. “Should we go?”
Jeanne held her head in both hands to think things over better. She had already made a hundred different plans in anticipation of this type of situation. Which of all those plans was the best one now?
“No. Not the canoe. They’re ahead and behind. Let’s stay here.”
“We can’t take to the woods, that’s for sure. They’ll come that way, too.”
“Quick, children. Go to the house.”
Gansagonas appeared on the doorstep. She was holding a heavy sack of provisions. Wise and confident, she already knew which of the alternatives was preferable.
She set down the sack and went in to prepare another one. In a voice that Simon the despot would not approve of, Jeanne announced, “Limp, I’m taking the family into the cellar. What will you do?”
“I’ll stay hidden in the bushes by the water. Anonkade will be coming back from fishing a few hours from now. He and his friend will help us.”
“And the dog?”
Jeanne and Mathurin understood each other at a glance. They could not risk Miraud betraying his masters’ hide-out in his eag
erness to protect them.
“I’ll take the dog with me,” the old hunter decided, his hand on his knife, nodding to his mistress.
Poor Miraud, thought Jeanne. Then an instant later she added, Poor us.
“Quick, children. Follow me. We’re going to play hiding in the cellar, like we practised.”
The mother partridge’s trick vaguely combined with the Trojan horse strategy had inspired the astute king’s daughter to devise a possible way to outwit the enemy.
Until now, the whites had opposed the Iroquois attacks either with a desperate resistance or an even more disastrous retreat. The cellar Simon had dug for his fur pelts had been enlarged, improved and cleaned up by Jeanne and Gansagonas. This unexpected use it had been put to offered a slim chance for safety.
“Will we make a snack like last time?” asked Isabelle. She had pleasant memories of the exercises they had practised many times since their father’s departure.
“Yes. Perhaps several.”
“Will we have light?” asked Nicolas anxiously. Since his fall in the ravine, darkness still held danger for him.
“Gansagonas will be there, and so will I. Quickly, climb down.”
She carefully set the turf aside, uncovering the square trap door. A rough ladder plunged into the darkness. Nicolas hesitated. Jeanne gave him a push.
“There’s a candle down there and a flint stone. Light it for me as I showed you.”
Very proud, the boy conquered his fear and climbed agilely down the ladder. Isabelle burst into tears.
“Where’s Zeanne? She’s going to want to come.”
“I’ll bring her to you in a little while. Jump.”
Kneeling at the edge of the hole, Jeanne grasped Isabelle by the wrists, swung her into the emptiness and dropped her a foot from the bottom. An instant later, the little girl, who took after her father, began showering her brother with advice as he did his utmost to produce a spark.
It was cold and damp in that low cellar, dug right into the earth. Fur pelts, the relics of Simon’s first disastrous expedition before Christmas, were waiting to be packed in bales. An odour of wild beasts filled the confined space.
Gansagonas, the expression on her face carefully impassive, yet with bright eyes, arrived with gourds of water, sacks, blankets and clothing. She disappeared into the cellar without a word. It was the second time she had faced the Iroquois with the children. During the last raid, she had had time to flee into the forest while men burned down the house, scalped her mistress and killed the baby in her arms.
This time she was only too happy to let the determined white woman make the decisions.
Jeanne said, “I’m closing up the trap door. Barricade it from inside. Open it when I knock twice. You know what to give the children.”
Without discussion, Gansagonas pulled the trap door shut. As luck would have it, Nicolas managed to light the candle that very moment. The first minutes would not be too difficult. Jeanne replaced the turf that Simon had artfully cut. No one would guess the hiding place. Now it was time to set the scene Jeanne had planned. With her fertile imagination and sense for the practical, she had considered every aspect of the problem that might arise. Now she would have liked to discuss the plan with Simon. If only she had time to carry it out before the Iroquois arrived.
Jeanne was as active and sure in danger as she was awkward and clumsy in the public eye or in household chores. Like a hurricane unleashed, she was everywhere.
From her trunk, she took the long hair she had cut off the summer before. She ran down to the river and hung it on a branch where it could be easily seen.
With one kick she smashed in the bark canoe and pushed it towards deep water, where it slowly sank. The paddles she threw into the river drifted down the current, turning circles.
“Good luck, Limp,” she called towards the bushes. She felt the old hunter’s presence there, though she could not see him. Miraud whimpered. He wanted so much to come to her. As long as there was hope, Mathurin would spare the dog that had become his hunting companion. But you couldn’t risk that many lives to save an animal. As soon as he sounded the alarm, he would have to be killed.
Jeanne picked up her skirts in an impatient and characteristic gesture. She galloped towards the house and leaned her musket near the door. She quickly slipped on her “brother’s” suit and fastened the belt around her waist; it would scarcely go around her once. Would this baby they’d waited for so long and hoped for so much ever have the chance to see the light of day? She made sure she had everything she needed: the knife Charron had given her, the powder horn, the bag of lead shot.
Jeanne grabbed the container of sea-wolf oil, the lamp fuel she had traded some maple sugar for. She spread the viscous liquid over the table, the floor, under the bed. The beautiful patchwork comforter went to join the grey cape, the wolfskin coat and Zeanne the doll near the door.
Had she forgotten anything? She went through the cabin to check. Oh, yes! The flowered sugar bowl Thérèse de Bretonville had given to Isabelle. It still contained some dry maple sugar that Nicolas had pounded into a powder.
A shot rang out by the river; Mathurin’s hopeless battle had begun. The Iroquois had come too soon. She wouldn’t have time to carry out her clever plan. Under no pretext would she go near the trap door of the cellar. The mother partridge does not betray her young.
A shadow blocked the light outlined by the door. An Iroquois was there, his face painted, threatening, tomahawk in hand.
He didn’t seem to be in a hurry and he was alone. A glance through the window—her beautiful, precious window—assured her of that. A small canoe was drawn up on the bank. The Iroquois always travelled in twos in these craft. Was it this one’s companion Mathurin had fired at? Why wasn’t he firing any more shots?
All these unanswered questions jostled together in Jeanne’s head. On the threshold, the Indian had not moved. He was studying her at length, intrigued by her unexpected reaction. Usually white women screamed, went into hysterics or fainted. This one was eyeing him calmly and walking towards the hearth, without letting go of her sugar bowl.
She bent down, picked up a log with one end still smoking and shook it in the embers to ignite it again. Then she calmly directed it towards the table glistening with oil.
With a low rumble, the fire covered it and reached towards the ceiling. The Iroquois let out a cry of rage and rushed forward, raising his axe. The madwoman had no right to light the fire herself without giving him time to choose his trophies.
The poacher’s granddaughter had carried around mustard powder for too many years during her youth not to be ready to use it. Instinctively, with a snap of her wrist, she threw the contents of the sugar bowl in the Indian’s face. The large pieces of brown sugar didn’t affect him, but the powder that Nicolas had carefully ground with his pestle filled the startled man’s eyes. He put both his hands to his face, the same reflex Thierry had had long before. Then that familiar rage took hold of Jeanne at the sight of this brute who dared invade her home and endanger her family.
Her fingers closed around the long handle of the cast-iron frying pan. She raised it, and with all the strength of her anger, crashed it down on the bent head. The Indian collapsed in a heap. The greedy flames licked the walls, reached the other puddles of oil and leaped in their infernal dance.
Jeanne shook herself and ran towards the door before the fire cut off her retreat. On the way she tripped over the pile of clothing she’d thrown there earlier. She grabbed her musket as she kicked the coat, cape, coverlet and doll outside. Possessions were so scarce in New France that everyone was attached to them, even in the gravest danger.
Jeanne glanced around to make sure no other enemy was in sight. Did she have time to get rid of the Iroquois’s canoe? That was a necessity, for without it, the scene she’d set would be useless.
&n
bsp; The next Iroquois who passed by must see the smoking ruins and the head of hair that would tell the triumphant story of scalpings and murders. They would continue on their way, searching for other prey their brother had not yet reached.
This second trip to the river demanded more of Jeanne than all her previous acts. She was drained of all her rage and courage. She had but one thought: to dive into the safety of the cellar. For an instant she hesitated.
Yet finally she ran towards the water. A vigorous push sent the light canoe into the midst of the current, and it went off on its own, carried away on the river swollen by the spring thaw.
Very softly she called, “Mathurin?”
No one answered. She dashed into the bushes where the trapper had been hiding without even the most elementary caution. The courageous mother was no more than an automaton, and it was better that way. With no horror, no reaction, she contemplated the body of the dog with its throat slit at her feet. Farther away was an Indian who must have been killed almost at point-blank range by Limp, since his tomahawk had had time to split open the old coureur de bois’s bald head.
Jeanne let the branches close again over the spectacle that she would relive in her nightmares. She raced back towards the house that was blazing briskly, her beautiful chateau in the forest. With a sharp crack, the window shattered.
Unfolding the comforter, she piled up the clothes, Zeanne and even the cat that had scampered over to her, returning from a fruitful hunt.
Two sharp knocks. The trap door opened. The candle flickered. It wasn’t so cold; the bodies huddled together warmed the shelter. On the other hand, the atmosphere was already heavy. Would the air holes the two women had provided be sufficient? Jeanne had prescribed a strong dose of paregoric that Gansagonas prepared for the children. They had swallowed it and were now sleeping soundly.
They had to be spared the horror of waiting in the darkness; they must not be given the chance to cry or raise their voices.
The King's Daughter Page 17
