Adventures of Radisson

by Fournier, Martin

CHAPTER 4

  TORTURE

  THE IROQUOIS MANHANDLED Radisson all the way back to the village. Famished, disheartened, he endured it all without complaint, without resisting. He thought only of saving his energy and his life, if such a thing were still possible.

  As they crossed the broad lake that separated the north-flowing from the south-flowing waters, they encountered a group of Iroquois from the village where Radisson lived. After negotiation, the five warriors from the Wolf clan, who had been looking everywhere for Radisson for the past three weeks, roared with joy when they finally got their hands on him in return for a wampum, a necklace made from shells. Even though the Iroquois looked after him and did not ill-treat him, Radisson was under no illusions: his fate was sealed. He knew well that the stronger the prisoner, the better it reflected on the warriors who captured him. His captors would want to put on a good show when they hauled him back to the village like a trophy, before they killed him.

  Even so, Radisson devoured everything he was allowed to eat. He wanted to regain his strength so he could fight to the finish, even if he had only one chance in one hundred thousand of coming out alive. A single thought filled his mind: he must LIVE at all costs! No matter his past mistakes, his past glories, his family, his pain, his dreams, he would do everything he could to cheat death. And if the end did come, then he wanted to leave this world head held high: bravely, not as a traitor or a coward.

  When they got to within sight of the village, Radisson’s guard suddenly yanked the rope around his neck. Despite the shock, he used all his determination and agility to stay on his feet. The five Iroquois who bought him joined some thirty triumphant warriors who were openly roughing up the dozen or so men and women they had captured. It was a triumph for the village. People were running in all directions, shouting with joy. Even if the fear of dying was gnawing at him, Radisson clenched his teeth and stood as straight as an oak to maintain his dignity and show his courage. His dark eyes gleamed with an unquenchable thirst for life. He knew he had only one chance if he was to avoid death: he must prove his outstanding courage and valour to all. It was his last card, and he intended to play it with a flourish.

  Many of the village men had returned home from their war parties. They gathered in rows on either side of the village gate alongside the women and children, primed to take part in the sinister welcoming ceremony. All were armed. The welcome promised to be even more terrible than the one Radisson had witnessed a few weeks before. The guards still had their prisoners on leashes like animals and were preparing to set them loose into the madness. Radisson focused on the gate that he must reach at all costs, no matter the hundred blows that would rain down upon him. He wanted to be the first to rush forward, head down, breathing in short gasps, knowing that the worst treatment would be reserved for the stragglers. He pulled with all his might on the rope so that his guard would release him and let him run as fast as he could. Again he pulled … when, out of nowhere, his mother emerged from the crowd and rushed toward him.

  Seconds later, she grabbed him by the hair and dragged him through the baying mob. They lashed out at him. Katari took a blow to the shoulder and, in her shrill voice, began to shower those around her with words of abuse that Radisson barely understood. She shouted and cursed her assailants with all her strength. Three warriors were about to strike her again when Garagonké’s powerful voice boomed out over the commotion, ordering them to step back and out of the way. Grudgingly they did as he said. Katari seized the opportunity to stride forward, as a young man attacked Radisson from behind. Garagonké waved his fist at him, moved him out of the way, and rushed after his wife to protect her. The crowd turned away from them and started to beat the other prisoners, who were trying to make the most of the diversion to slip into the village.

  Katari, Radisson, and Garagonké ran to seek shelter in the longhouse of the Bear clan. Safe at last, Radisson could not believe he was back among his adoptive family. That his parents had stood up for him like that was more than he ever could have hoped for. His head still spinning, he couldn’t believe he’d managed to escape a beating so easily and listened with sadness as Garagonké angrily called him a traitor and a fool, reminding him how good his parents had been to him. Raising his hands skyward, holding his head, then pointing at his adopted son, he showered Radisson with insults in Iroquois. Through the stream of incomprehensible words, Radisson managed to make out that his father wanted to know why he had acted as he did, why he had killed three of his brothers and run away. Radisson jumped at the chance and responded as best he could, without the slightest trace of remorse for the cursed Algonquin who had led him right to the brink of disaster.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” he exclaimed. “My brothers from the Wolf clan and I met an Algonquin while we were out hunting. He was from the Tortoise clan, but in another village. We trusted him and shared a meal. But, in the middle of the night, he woke me up and killed my three friends before my eyes. He threatened to kill me too, unless I followed him. I didn’t do anything, father! I swear to you! It was him! We fled in a canoe he had hidden in the woods. We risked our lives travelling by night. During the day we stayed hidden, too afraid to move or eat. Father, believe me! I cried bitter tears to mourn my lost brothers, but I didn’t shed a tear when the Iroquois killed the hateful Algonquin! I didn’t kill anyone, father! I swear!”

  Radisson wasn’t able to express himself as he would have wished: he couldn’t always find the right words in Iroquois. But his father, now calm, seemed to have understood the gist of it all. He was deep in thought. Radisson used the opportunity to beg his mother for forgiveness. But the five warriors who had brought Radisson back to the village suddenly burst into the longhouse. They were still wearing their threatening war paint and pointed their muskets, tomahawks, and knives at him. The man who appeared to be their chief told Garagonké in no uncertain terms that he had no right to their prisoner. Garagonké knew it. Resigned, he lowered his eyes and turned away. The warriors seized Radisson and marched him to the centre of the village with the other prisoners who had survived the beating. There they bound him to a stake in the ground, along with the five men and two women. All were to be tortured. Radisson realized that his time had come. There was no one left to help him. The Iroquois from the Wolf clan would exact their revenge.

  Hours later, after much chanting, dancing, and suffering, Radisson thought he was almost saved. The Algonquin at his side had his flesh seared with firebrands. Further on, a Frenchman was screaming bloody murder as his torturers lowered a necklace of red-hot tomahawk heads down onto his body. But during the whole time, only two old men came to tear out the four remaining fingernails of Radisson’s right hand. He managed not to cry out. His hand now looked enormous to him, bigger than the rest of his body, throbbing and painful. But he didn’t give in. He could not give in. He had to keep his head held high. To stand up to those fearless Iroquois and prove he was their equal. Radisson thanked God he did not have to suffer worse torments as children threw tiny darts at him, barely piercing his skin. He was in pain, but his life was not in danger. He could not understand why the Iroquois were going easy on him.

  At the end of the long day, three young men each grabbed a firebrand and brushed the glowing branches against his face. One of them rubbed it across his chest. His chest hair went up in flames immediately, filling the air with the pungent smell of burning skin. Radisson couldn’t breathe. His thoughts vanished, driven away by the all-consuming pain he must endure. He was given a few moments’ respite. The pain lessened; at last he could breathe again. Later, he was taken down from the stake and brought to a longhouse he had never been inside of before. It was dark. Night had fallen. Radisson could not see a thing. There they left him alone, standing in a large empty space, hands and feet still bound.

  Why did they bring him here, he wondered. Why another lull? Why was no one guarding him? The questions charged to and fro in his mind. Was his execution drawing near? Was an executioner going to finish him of
f at any moment with a tomahawk to the head? But nothing happened. Radisson was still awash with pain, in mortal danger. But amid the unbearable silence, the pause might be a good sign, he hoped. He clung to the fact that he hadn’t been tortured as severely as the others. His will to live would help him survive this ordeal. Suddenly, he began shaking like a leaf from cold and fear. He lost hold of his emotions for a moment, afraid he was going to fall down from exhaustion onto his bleeding hand, fall onto his burning chest, cry out with fear and pain. It passed. A moonbeam feebly lit up the entrance to the longhouse, illuminating the pillars that supported the wooden frame. He wanted to get over there, lean against them, rest against them. At a snail’s pace, he shuffled over, careful to keep his balance. Relief!

  Wrought with pain, Radisson could not sleep, but he did find a little energy in the post he leaned against. Dazzling images exploded and flashed in his head like lightning. The painted faces of his executioners, the beloved faces of his family, memories of France, visions of torture. How sorry he was he ever came to New France. He should have stayed in Paris. He would give anything to go back and stay with his sister Marguerite, and keep his promise this time. He held his mother Katari in his arms, kind gentle Katari who abhorred torture. He prayed in the Jesuit chapel in Trois-Rivières, implored Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the Holy Family. A stream of emotions. Shattered body. Liquid thoughts. His very being was breaking up.

  In the early hours of the morning, the Iroquois came for him. Once again they tied him to the torture stake. It seemed as though they were ready to start all over again. A terrible weariness washed over young Radisson. All hope disappeared. This would be the day he died.

  Katari sought him out and gave him a faint hope, and something to eat and drink. Before she left, she whispered in his ear: “Be brave, my son. You will not die.” The words filled him with joy and drove away the pain for a moment. Then an old man came and stood beside him. With slow, deliberate movements, he prepared a tobacco pipe, lighted it, and plunged Radisson’s thumb into the smouldering bowl, sucking in air greedily. Radisson’s entire body was set ablaze. Immense pain flowed over his body from head to toe, devastating his thoughts, overwhelming his heart, burning his memories to a cinder. Radisson was nothing more than a ball of fire, a flame lost in the universe. Then he heard the old man telling him to sing. Radisson mustered his strength and sang, vaguely conscious of the agony of the man beside him as hot sand was poured over his head. Sickening smoke rose up from his body as he died. Radisson’s voice gave out when he could sing no more, and another torturer forced him to drink an invigorating herbal tea that stirred his mind. Again he sang, sang for his life.

  With the old man gone, Radisson was alone with the endless pain that had taken hold of him. It was devastating, emptying him of all substance.

  At the end of this second day of torment, at sunset, Radisson saw an angry young warrior appear before him, brandishing a red-hot sword. After a few threatening thrusts, he plunged it mercilessly into Radisson’s right foot. The searing pain that Radisson felt seemed scarcely harder to bear than what he was already enduring. The only thing he was still capable of thinking was that he must not cry out. He succeeded, but half lost consciousness. All that remained of his life, of his mind, of his will to live was a nightmare in which he convinced himself to suffer without crying out. He must survive one more minute, just one more minute, survive…

  Radisson’s mother and sisters came to comfort him. He barely sensed their presence, but was moved at the thought that human beings still wished him well. When his father joined them, a spark of joy brought momentary comfort to his aching heart. They exhorted him to stay strong while they tried to spare his life. There was hope, it seemed. “Please, free me from this suffering!” Radisson wanted to cry out. But not a sound left his mouth. When his family left, he slid back into oblivion, the words of the Jesuit missionaries ringing in his mind: “Sinners will atone for their sins in the torments of hell for all eternity.” Since he had killed, God would send him to suffer in hell for all eternity. Despair.

  As Iroquois custom dictated, Garagonké and Katari did everything in their power to make amends for Radisson’s transgression. Katari was convinced he would never have killed his young companions. She knew him well and believed his version of events. She was sure the Algonquin must have murdered the three of them. Garagonké also believed this version. Since he was born into the Wolf clan, he had much more influence over his extended family. Ganaha had also been sent for, since he had been the first to believe in Radisson’s merit and to choose him as a brother. He might be able to swing the balance in his favour. Katari and Garagonké had lost their eldest son Orinha in battle the previous year and another son, Ongienda, just recently. They had their hearts set on adopting Radisson to replace them. Most thought they deserved to keep their adopted son if that was their wish.

  But negotiations were not easy. A few members of the Wolf clan were insisting on vengeance and compensation. “Why spare the life of a Frenchman? They are our enemies!” some said. Not to mention that the death of this one Frenchman would only begin to make up for the loss of the three young Iroquois he had been with. Sparing Radisson might anger the spirits of the ancestors and lead to more sorrow, others said. But Katari was resolute. Losing two sons had been painful. But she did not want to see an innocent man die, a promising young man she believed in. So she fought, she argued, she insisted, and Garagonké supported her.

  THE NEXT DAY, at dawn, the ropes that held Radisson prisoner were cut. He fell immediately to the ground, then was picked up and carried into a longhouse where around fifty people had gathered. Two Iroquois took care of him, sat him down on the ground, and gave him a bitter herbal tea to drink to bring him around. Radisson wondered what was happening. Before him, old men smoked their pipes in silence. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he recognized his father in the middle of the crowd, smoking with the others. Garagonké was wearing two long pearl necklaces and two wampums, and from time to time he stole a glance at his adopted son. Radisson realized that he was still alive, in his Iroquois village, and not in hell.

  Seven or eight other prisoners— men, women, and children —were gathered behind him. A long series of speeches began in the Iroquois language. In turn, the elders expressed themselves expansively. Radisson did not understand a word. His pain was still too intense, his fatigue too great. Then silence fell over the longhouse and, suddenly, without warning, an old woman and two children were struck once over the head with a club. They died instantly. Radisson jumped as all the other prisoners were freed in a sudden flurry of activity. He was the only prisoner not to be executed or freed.

  Garagonké, Katari, and Ganaha rose to their feet and stood in front of the assembly. Radisson was overcome with joy when he saw his brother Ganaha dancing and singing with his father and mother. Radisson hadn’t seen Ganaha since he had run away, and knowing Ganaha was there filled him with hope. He watched his family closely, keeping an eye on their every move. Soon his mother stopped dancing. She lifted one of the magnificent wampums from around Garagonké’s neck and placed it on the ground. Then she took the other necklace, laid it across Radisson’s shoulders, and the whole family stepped back. The elders whispered among themselves and from time to time threw a handful of tobacco on the fire. The wait was unbearable for Radisson, who understood nothing of the ritual. Suddenly one of the elders motioned with his hand and hundreds of people lifted up the bark walls of the longhouse. Garagonké, Katari, and Ganaha reappeared, accompanied by Radisson’s two sisters. Garagonké went over to Radisson, took the wampum from his shoulders, and threw it at the feet of one of the elders. He said a few solemn words and cut the ropes that still bound Radisson’s hands. Then he helped him up, telling him to rejoice for he had been saved. He was a free man: the Iroquois had forgiven him!

  Radisson could barely believe it. Dizzy at the sheer joy that took hold of every fibre of his being, he found in an instant an extraordinary upsurg
e of energy that let him forget all his suffering. His Iroquois mother and father had given him back his life. He felt as though it was the very first day of life in the world. His heart exploded with overwhelming gratitude toward his parents. He sang in a powerful voice with his father, then hurried over to Katari to kiss her and hold his brother tight in his arms. Dozens of Iroquois sang and danced with them. The murder he committed— as though it never happened! His unforgivable actions—forgotten! The Iroquois spirits had produced a miracle!

  Radisson could feel a whole new life coursing through his veins. He intended to take the opportunity granted to him to atone for his mistakes. In every fragment of his being, he was happy and proud to be an Iroquois, like his father, his mother, and all those who had pardoned him. “How sublime are Iroquois customs!” Radisson thought to himself as he sang his rediscovered happiness at the top of his voice, promising himself he would be worthy of his magnanimous parents. It was the happiest day of his life!

  CHAPTER 5

  BECOMING AN IROQUOIS

  TWO MONTHS HAD PASSED since Radisson was tortured; at last he had fully recovered. Right after his pardon, his mothers and sisters applied plasters made from crushed plants and roots that quickly healed his wounds. Only the nails on his right hand and his pierced foot took all that long to heal.

  Fall was now well underway. Nearly all the men had returned from the war and devoted their time to hunting and fishing before winter came. Some of them also went on a trading expedition to the Dutch outpost that lay four or five days’ walk from the village. They brought back cloth, wool blankets, iron tomahawks and knives, and also gunpowder and muskets, leaving the Dutch beaver pelts in exchange.

  In the longhouse of the Bear clan, the atmosphere was much changed. Eighty people lived there permanently. Activity was intense as preparations for winter were in full swing. Long sheaves of corn hung from outside every longhouse in the village. The women spent their days pounding dried corn kernels to make meal, which they stored in big bark containers. They also harvested squash and beans from the fields. Meanwhile the men tended several fires, which they smothered with dead leaves until they began to smoke, then hung meat and fish over them to dry so that they would last the winter. All these provisions they stored in the longhouses, laying them out on the ground or hanging them from the ceiling. To prevent the dried corn from being burned or stolen, they buried some of it in the ground, in caches lined with bark. Finally, they stocked up on firewood and repaired all the longhouses, to keep out the snow and the cold over the winter months.