Adventures of Radisson

by Fournier, Martin

  GANAHA WAS BACK! Radisson was overjoyed. He hadn’t realized how attached he had become to his abductor. Katari hadn’t told him that Ganaha had gone to fetch their father, but now he was back with Garagonké, who now became Radisson’s adoptive father. Garagonké appeared just as suddenly in Radisson’s life as his real father back in France had left it, without a trace. Ganaha had taken three weeks to find him and bring him home. Garagonké had been travelling from one Cayuga and Seneca village to the next, planning the next offensive. Ganaha had spoken so highly of his new son that Garagonké agreed to interrupt his mission.

  Radisson was very impressed by the war chief who had put together strings of victories and killed so many enemies. Despite his venerable age, the energy and dignity he emanated reminded Radisson of the traits he so admired in the Algonquin chief at Trois-Rivières. In silence, Garagonké looked his new son over from head to toe for long seconds before addressing him. Radisson felt the invincible warrior’s stare pierce right through him.

  “Ganaha did not lie to me,” he said. “You are indeed my son, the incarnation of Orinha whom you are replacing. Welcome to our family. The Bear clan welcomes you with joy into its longhouse. Speak to me, now. Your father wishes to hear your voice.”

  Troubled by shameful thoughts, Radisson could not think of a single word. What should he say to a war chief from a nation that had killed so many French? Through what metamorphosis could he have become such a welcoming father? Radisson opted to speak to him of hunting and fishing, knowing that an Iroquois must be good at both. He hoped Garagonké would be pleased with him.

  “Fine,” his father replied. “You must hunt more often. A man’s place is not in the longhouse with the women. Ganaha praised your strength and I see he spoke the truth. You fought an Iroquois who wanted you dead and you beat him. Good. If you fight our enemies with the same conviction, you will bring honour to our family and to our nation. That is what I expect from you. But you are still young and have much to learn. Your two brothers and your uncles will guide you once they return from their campaigns. As for me, I must complete my missions to the other Iroquois nations. We will have time enough to get to know each other this winter.”

  The power of his voice, his assurance, and his presence impressed Radisson, who felt even more intimidated. He was not at all certain he was the warrior his father hoped for. He was not even certain he would be able to become a true Iroquois. And yet he knew his life depended on his ability to transform himself. He had to. It was the only path to salvation open to him.

  The same evening, Garagonké told Radisson about his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, all valiant warriors from the Wolf and the Tortoise clans. He paid tribute to the woman he had married, Katari, and to the other women in the Bear clan, whose many children contributed to the village’s well-being, each in their own way. Once he had finished, in front of all those seated in a circle at the centre of the longhouse, around a fire now reduced to embers, Garagonké moved his hands with a broad, sweeping motion and said to his son: “All this is yours. Now you know the history of your family. Tell me, are you happy to be living among us?” Radisson could only nod his approval. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he replied with conviction: “Yes!” How much better he felt now that he’d met his father.

  That night, above Ganaha’s bed, Radisson slept soundly on a bed of fir boughs, wrapped in a soft, pliable deerskin. Opposite him, on the other side of the family fire, Katari slept on the bed closest to the ground, her husband in the bed above her. Beside them, Radisson’s two sisters slept in bunk beds. But Ongienda’s bed lay empty. He had returned to war.

  RADISSON’S FATHER and brother left the next day: Ganaha, to the neighbouring Oneida nation to join a war party and Garagonké on his mission to the chiefs of the Iroquois nations to the west in hopes of launching a great offensive the following summer. Radisson once again found himself alone.

  A few days later, while Radisson was working in the fields with his two sisters, a rumour began to make the rounds among the women. In no time at all, they were feverish with excitement. Conharassan and Assasné, Radisson’s other sister, dashed back to the village without even waiting for him, and many of the other women followed them as fast as they could. Surprised at the commotion, Radisson followed them slowly, observing closely in an attempt to understand what was causing the excitement. As he got closer to the village gate, he could make out a group of armed Iroquois dressed for war in the distance. At the same time, women, boys, and a handful of old men rushed to take up positions outside the stockade, row upon row, on each side of the gate. Once again, each brandished a stick, an iron bar, a pestle for grinding corn, a whip, or a thorny branch. Others still hurried to take their places, jostling for position.

  It resembled the scene that greeted Radisson when he first arrived in the village as a prisoner a few weeks before. Curious to see what would happen next, he joined the throng by the gate, ready to slip away if the crowd turned against him. Experience had taught him he could never be too careful with the Iroquois. As soon as she saw him, his sister Conharassan leaped into his arms, beside herself with excitement. She was holding a long switch in one hand and a branch covered with thorns in the other. She thrust the switch into his hand, keeping the more threatening branch for herself.

  Nearly everyone who lived in the village was now lined up in one of two long rows on either side of the gate. Assasné ran to take her place with two friends. They quickly positioned themselves at the end of the row. Only Katari was missing. Radisson could not see her anywhere.

  The clamour of the crowd welcomed the warriors back to the village after a successful raid. Behind them they dragged three prisoners, held together by a rope around their necks. They were all braves from enemy nations. As they drew closer, the cries grew louder. After a brief hesitation, a first prisoner threw himself between the two lines of villagers, who lashed out at him with all their might. Radisson admired the courage and agility of the man, who covered his head with his arms and managed to dodge an assailant or two. He progressed quickly, not letting the beating slow him down. Conharassan, both arms in the air, was jubilant and struck him on the way past as hard as she could. Ripping open his back with her thorn-covered branch, she shrieked with excitement. Radisson watched the poor prisoner pass by, not moving a muscle. He saw his swollen face and his eyes aglow with terror. Blood ran down from his scalp, off his back and legs. With one final effort, the man flung himself to the ground just inside the stockade, exhausted. Nobody would beat him now. Radisson would have liked to help him, but that would have been too risky. He would probably be attacked as well. He restrained himself.

  The roar of the crowd welled up again, signalling that the second prisoner was on his way. As with the first, the women and boys struck him with determined, vicious blows. The man stumbled and picked himself up again. Three people broke ranks to beat him with a stick. The prisoner swayed, zigzagged, and ran into other attackers. His head and body were lacerated and bleeding profusely. Radisson could hardly breathe at the sight of the senseless spectacle. He felt every blow as though it were aimed at him. The man fell a second time, just in front of Conharassan, who restrained herself and did not hit him, perhaps out of pity. More dead than alive, the man crawled on all fours to the village, a woman continuing to whip him all the while. With great difficulty, he managed to cross the boundary line that spared him a further beating.

  Conharassan let out a shrill cry and dashed toward the third prisoner, who, rooted to the spot in terror, refused to advance. His captors shoved him forward. A group broke off from the crowd to beat him. Women and boys battered him senseless. He stood no chance. Wielding her thorn-covered branch, Conharassan joined the pack that was determined to finish him off then and there. Radisson could not bear to watch the savage execution and slipped away when nobody was watching. He ran between the longhouses until he reached the home of the Bear clan, which he entered at full speed.

  Once he got his b
reath back, he saw Katari sitting pensively beside the fire. When Radisson walked over to her, she stood up, opened her arms, and held him tightly against her chest, murmuring in his ear: “My dear son… I am so glad nothing happened to you. I was worried.” Radisson felt a surge of affection for his adoptive mother, the mother who had taken no part in the torture, the mother who had protected him from the same horrible ordeal when he had arrived in the village. If it weren’t for her and Ganaha, he realized, he might well be dead. They would have smashed his head in, ripped off his skin, and slashed open his stomach. He did not know how he would have reacted under such a deluge of blows.

  Katari told him a story he could only half understand, but he caught enough to guess at the reasons why she didn’t attend the beating. Outside, Radisson could hear the commotion of the crowd that had come back inside the village. The Iroquois were preparing a torture session for the two prisoners who had survived.

  “I saw my parents die before my eyes,” said Katari, “when I was six years old. The Iroquois tortured them. They had captured us Hurons— their enemies —in an ambush. Because I was a child they spared me. A family from the Bear clan adopted me. Later, I became an Iroquois, a good-looking, hard-working woman who knew how to love. Garagonké fell in love with me and married me. And I loved him too.”

  Radisson was struck by the emotion he could hear in his mother’s pained voice.

  “I never did get used to the torture. I don’t want to add to the hatred and the thirst for vengeance that too many of us feel. Killing is no way to strike a balance between the living and the dead, no matter what they say. There is no end to the cycle of vengeance. Death is everywhere now, spread by war and disease. The spirits have abandoned the Iroquois. I adopted you to replace my son who was killed in battle. I asked Ganaha to bring me back a prisoner because that’s how tradition would have it, the real tradition that adds a new life for each that is taken away. Adopting new blood makes our family grow and strengthens our hold on life. That’s what will save us.”

  Katari broke off for a long moment. She looked Radisson straight in the eye, holding his face in her hands. She smiled at him and asked: “Do you know why the spirits are no longer protecting the Iroquois? Do you think they’re angry with us? Do you think it is their turn for revenge?”

  Radisson did not completely understand the question, but he was sure he did not know the answer. The subject was far beyond what he knew of life and the Iroquois language. He chose to say nothing. Katari looked away and lowered her arms.

  “The Great Spirit of the French is powerful,” she continued, staring off into space. “I saw it when the Blackrobe your father captured six years ago spent a few months here living under our roof. He learned Iroquois and would often speak to us of peace, of peace and love. Even though he was our prisoner, he was very powerful. The spirit he worshipped gave him the strength to live and to convince us we were better off selling him to the Dutch rather than killing him. Perhaps he was right about everything.”

  Katari looked at Radisson again, with eyes so full of compassion, so sad, and so mysterious that he lost himself in them.

  “Garagonké still believes in war,” she continued. “He believes that waging ruthless war against all the enemies of the Iroquois will save our people. May he be right. May the spirits that have always supported him stay favourable to him and bring us victory. But doubt has started to flicker in my mind. I am afraid for him and I am afraid for my people because we are dying in greater numbers than the French and the Dutch. Their Great Spirit is more powerful than the spirits of our ancestors.”

  Katari fell silent. Radisson too kept silent, more touched than if he had understood everything. His mother was calling him to her rescue, he thought, but he did not know how to answer her call. Would he ever be able to? He had his doubts. She had saved his life and yet he felt as though there was nothing he could do for her. It was a sad situation, but one day he hoped he could turn around and pay back the debt he owed her.

  Also lost in her thoughts, Katari poked distractedly at the fire with the end of a long stick. Radisson asked her why she didn’t try to save the prisoners as she had done for him. She threw back her head and gave him a piercing look.

  “Because the prisoners were brought back by the Tortoise clan and I am from the Bear clan. There is nothing I can do for them. Listen to them…” Radisson could hear them screaming in the distance. “They have already started to torture them. Tomorrow, they will kill them. But it will be a long, drawn-out affair— they know how to make them suffer. Until then, you will stay here with me. It’s not a good idea for them to see a Frenchman. Who knows what might happen to you? The warriors do not know you and might turn on you. Stay here. With me, you have nothing to fear.”

  ONCE CALM HAD RETURNED to the village, Radisson took his father’s advice and organized a short hunting expedition. Serontatié, the only boy he liked spending time with, would accompany him. Despite his youth, he was kind, smart, and quick-witted. And, above all else, he never treated Radisson with contempt, always as an equal. Still, as a token of his friendship toward Serontatié, Radisson had to agree that two of his friends from the Wolf clan would join them. Even though he had no affinity toward the other two, he was in no position to complain. His dog Bo would accompany the party.

  While Serontatié and Radisson both opted for a musket, their companions felt more comfortable with bow and arrow. Each one brought with him a knife, a tomahawk, and a fire starter. As a precaution they carried a small reserve of cornmeal.

  At the start of their journey, the four young men wandered through the forest without encountering any sign of big game. They amused themselves killing hares and squirrels along the way. Through his innate sense of pride and because he felt he had to prove his worth to Serontatié’s two friends who were enjoying making fun of him, Radisson tried his best to impress them with his shooting prowess. Ever since he saw the prisoners tortured then put to death, he had felt an even greater need to show off his strength and skills. But to show their superiority the two fools accompanying them fell back on their bows and arrows, weapons they mastered much better than Radisson. Radisson suffered their jibes in silence, but he could hardly wait to shut them up the first chance he could get. Wisely, he managed to keep everyone focused on hunting, the passion they all shared.

  As the four companions were looking for a good spot to set up camp, they met an old man out hunting alone in the woods. He introduced himself as an Algonquin by birth, adopted by the Iroquois in a neighbouring village four years ago. He enjoyed his new life. His only regret was not becoming an Iroquois earlier, he said. And he was not shy about his talents as a hunter and warrior. Impressed, the four young men held a quick confab to decide if they should press on with this experienced hunter. Later that evening, they would share a stew with him, made from two of the hares he had killed along with their own. And then in the days to come, they would be able to rely on his experience to flush out bigger game. The arrangement suited them and they quickly agreed to continue with the Algonquin.

  As the hares were roasting over the fire, the man could not stop talking. He went on at length about his hunting exploits, complaining that there wasn’t much game around the Iroquois villages compared to where he came from, north of the St. Lawrence. He knew a great place to hunt, he told them, east of where they were, and offered to take them there the next day. There, he told them, they’d be close to the Dutch colony, where almost nobody hunted, and where they’d be sure to bag themselves some big game. The young men agreed.

  A little later, having noticed that he looked different, the Algonquin questioned Radisson about his origins.

  “You’re not an Iroquois, are you?”

  “I’m French,” replied Radisson. “I was adopted two months ago by a family from the Bear clan. I live in the village of Coutu, not far from here. I am happy there.”

  Since the situation was clear enough for all to see, Radisson’s companions felt a little uncomfort
able, but preferred not to let their feelings show.

  “I’ve met a Frenchman or two in my time,” the former Algonquin continued. “If you ask me, you’ll be far better off with the Iroquois. They’re the best warriors in the world. Great hunters, too— although not as good as the Algonquins.”

  Enthralled by the incessant chatter of their new acquaintance, the three young Iroquois let him take over the conversation completely. Radisson found it all somewhat strange.

  “That your dog?” he asked.

  Radisson nodded. “Come here, boy. Here’s something to eat.” The Algonquin threw Bo a scrap of meat, which he swallowed with a single gulp. “You know that a hunting dog can come in very useful?” he continued. “I’ll show you tomorrow. Unless you’ve been bad to him, he’ll help us track our game. You’ll soon see I know what I’m doing. Like hunting, do you?”

  “Yes,” Radisson replied.

  “Like travelling, do you?” the mysterious Algonquin asked him again. “The best hunting grounds are far from here, you know. We could all head west together, head for the mountains.”

  No one replied.

  “I’ll lead the way,” added the Algonquin. “You’ll see, Radisson. Have some more, boy.”

  And the Algonquin threw Bo another chunk of meat. His interest in the dog was beginning to get on Radisson’s nerves. Like he was trying to win it over. It was his dog, after all, his faithful companion, not some stranger’s. Anyways, there was no way he’d be telling him its name.

  “When I was back home,” the man went on, “every winter we would go hunting with our dogs, great big dogs, much bigger than this one here. And we would always return home with more game than our toboggans could carry.”

  At nightfall, after turning the young men’s heads with his fine words, the Algonquin stepped away from the fire for a moment. A bit later, he motioned to Radisson to join him: he wanted to show him tracks he said had been left by game. But no matter how closely they stared, Radisson couldn’t see a thing. Bo didn’t either, although that didn’t stop him from sniffing all around them excitedly. As soon as they had their backs turned and the three Iroquois couldn’t hear them, the man asked Radisson under his breath if he spoke Algonquin.