A Land Apart

by Ian Roberts

  Witnessing Brulé’s new resolve, Champlain’s own sense of command returns, “Good. We break camp.”

  Stunned at this sudden shift in power, du Barre protests, “What? What are you saying? No! Absolutely not.” De Clement suddenly realizes this is his chance; this is the moment to put his own plan into action. “Yes, we will break camp. Here,” he beckons to his three French soldiers. As they hustle over, he announces, “We are going. And these men will take us.”

  Champlain’s revived claim on authority enrages du Barre. But if he is also confounded and angered by de Clemont he doesn’t show it. He looks now at the Marquis, turns his imperious attention on him and holds it there. De Clemont’s mind quickly clouds and falters in the face of the priest’s glare. The priest looks at the three soldiers. “He will desert you when you get back to France. He will not protect you because he will not even be able to protect himself. Come back to me now and I may be lenient. Otherwise all three of you are dead men. I guarantee it in the name of the King.” With this threat, du Barre reassumes his authority, at least over the soldiers who as yet have no sense of the severity of Iroquois threat. He gestures and two more soldiers scurry over.

  “Brulé, you are under arrest. You are coming with us.” Du Barre motions to the five soldiers now beside him. They level their muskets at Brulé, who looks at the musket barrels pointed at him and then up at the priest.

  “For what?”

  “I do not really need a reason. Accomplice to murder will do. I am putting you in irons.”

  At these words, Champlain explodes. He has had it with du Barre. He yells in frustration at the priest until two soldiers swing their barrels towards him. Du Barrre continues to Brulé, “After our trip to the Wendat, you are going back to France. This shameless black existence of yours is over. I have had enough of your Iroquois ruse.”

  “For God’s sake du Barre, you are mad!” says Champlain seething, keenly aware the momentum for escape is slipping away.

  “I see exactly what he is trying to do. Scaring us off. He does not fool me.”

  Two of the soldiers on sentry duty watch the growing confrontation on the other side of camp. They are charged with guarding their end of the palisade and right now with watching over the disoriented LeCharon as he washes in the lake next to the palisade gate. One should be standing at the gate scanning the length of the wall; the other, perched in the fork of a tree, should be surveying the forest over the palisade wall. But both are distracted, drawn into the drama unfolding not thirty feet away.

  As the soldiers level their muskets at Brulé, one of the sentries says, “That man knows how to get himself in a fix.” They turn back now as LeCharon straightens his new robe and steps out from behind the bushes in the shallow water onto shore not ten feet away. At that instant, an arrow shoots through the neck of the sentry in the tree.

  Brulé whirls at the sudden sound, intuiting danger. He bolts before the sentry’s gun even hits the ground. Smashing the soldiers’ gun barrels aside, he races across the camp. As he runs, he sees two Iroquois grab LeCharon still just outside the palisade and disappear. The other sentry, shocked momentarily, now swings his musket and aims at the Iroquois dragging away LeCharon. But two other Iroquois have worked their way silently along the outside of the palisade. They knock the sentry down and begin dragging him into the woods.

  Blind to the scene unfolding behind him, du Barre assumes Brulé is trying to escape. “Stop him,” he yells. The soldiers shoulder their muskets and take aim. But Tonda and Atsan lunge forward smashing the barrels and the shots go wild.

  Brulé grabs the sentry’s musket lying below the tree, dives for the edge of the palisade on his belly and raises the gun. The two Iroquois with LeCharon disappear into the forest and are gone. The other two drag the soldier. He aims and fires just as one of the Iroquois leans forward to get a better grasp of the soldier’s arm. The bullet hits the Iroquois in the back and he sprawls forward into the others. But in an instant, they too disappear into the forest and are gone.

  Another sentry further down the palisade, whose shot had gone wide through the trees, yells, “You hit him.”

  “Damn,” curses Brulé. He hadn’t been aiming at the Iroquois. “Poor wretch,” he mutters, knowing what awaits the captured soldier.

  He looks up, aware of a strange, gurgling sound. The sentry’s body hangs above him, his leg wedged in the fork of the tree. The arrow passed through his throat, and blood from the wound pours over his face and down the trunk. Brulé takes his knife and digs into the man’s neck and twists. The soldier’s entire body convulses and then goes limp.

  The soldiers, after firing wildly, had chased after Brulé to stop his supposed escape. They stand now, stunned at what they have just witnessed. Du Barre follows behind, his pace betraying his alarm.

  “What is going on? What has happened?” asks du Barre, his aloof assurance slightly less intact. “Where is Jean-Philippe? Damn it, what happened? Where is he?” Finally, Brulé realizes, the danger and reality of their situation are beginning to dawn on this man.

  “Your Iroquois ruse just took him.”

  “What do you mean just took him? Where? We have to get him back.”

  “Go ask them,” says Brulé, gesturing towards the forest.

  Now, he thinks, now, even du Barre will see what they must do. And perhaps this capture will give them some advantage. He knows these new prisoners will engross the Iroquois. For hours. This could give them the time they need to get away across the lake. Just as he is about to open his mouth to corral everyone to that end, du Barre says, “We must get him back. How do we get him back?” He clutches Brulé’s arm, but Brulé’s thoughts are now totally focused on their path of escape.

  “It will be dark in an hour. We leave everything here but canoes and muskets and hope we can find a place to defend ourselves on the Smoke River. They will know now that we will try to escape. Our hope of slipping away after dark, unnoticed, is gone. But they will be slow in their elm-bark canoes and we—”

  “No, no, no. How do we save Jean-Philippe?”

  Brulé can’t believe it; still the priest persists. “You mean from the Iroquois?”

  Du Barre nods at him, a desperate look gripping his face.

  “Forget him. Do you hear me? Forget him. They may save him for ransom. He is worth more alive than dead. You need to think of everyone else here. We need to save them. Now.”

  “Will they hurt him?” the priest pleads.

  “I hate to think what they will do to him. But they may not kill him.”

  “What —?”

  “You do not want to know,” cautions Brulé.

  “I convinced him to come here. I cannot leave him,” cries du Barre. Then in almost a whisper, “He is my brother.”

  But Brulé’s attention is on the task at hand. He ignores the priest’s comment, assuming he means all Jesuits are his brothers. “This in fact may give us a chance. The Iroquois will be busy with them all night. We can —”

  “No, no, no…you do not understand. My brother. My younger brother.”

  The words stop Brulé. He lets out a long sigh as the pieces fit, “LeCharon du Barre. Du Barre better suits your ambitions in court. LeCharon befits the humble priest.”

  “Please,” pleads du Barre. He implores Champlain, the soldiers, the nobles, but he has made no allies, and they avert their gaze. Suddenly, the priest’s pious, arrogant bearing has transformed into desperate pleading. He appeals to Brulé, his eyes betraying his fear, “Help me. I cannot leave him,” he whispers.

  As Brulé witnesses this once-powerful, willful priest wilt before him, out of nowhere, he has an idea. A crazy, half-formed, mad idea. He looks at Tonda, Atsan and Savignon, at Champlain and Petashwa and then out across the wide, free expanse of the lake in the last light of evening. The wheels turn, new pieces jump into place, the initial madness of it begins to evolve into a rash scheme. The faint but fantastic possibility slowly becomes tangible and concrete in his mind.
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  Except for the sentries alert now at their posts around the palisade, everyone stands silent around Brulé and du Barre, the camp suspended in a quiet vacuum of thought as this tumbling of cogs and gears drops into place in Brulé’s mind. As the last piece locks into place, he closes his eyes and feels the whole structure clear and anchored within him. He holds it there until he owns it, then opens his eyes and stares straight at du Barre.

  “I will rescue Charon.”

  “Thank you. We must—” begins the priest.

  “This is what I want in return.”

  The priest hadn’t anticipated this response; he looks at Brulé suspiciously.

  “I stay with the Wendat. The trade arrangement remains the same.”

  Du Barre’s manner already begins to shift. He has embedded himself, lodged himself, within the authority of the Crown, a Divine authority. He has realized his identity through that authority. No one dictates to the Crown. “I cannot do that. We have a company of investors now. A new colony.”

  But Brulé ignores him and continues, “You drop these charges of murder.”

  Revolt and anger surge through the priest’s mind. He will not relinquish his need for justice and order, and he most certainly will not relinquish the need for revenge. “He murdered a Jesuit. I cannot ignore that.”

  “Is he more important than your brother?”

  Du Barre seethes, his breath a rasping snarl. He hates Brulé and had relished the moment he would crush him. Now instead, this uncouth savage dominates him and he loathes it. Looking out across the lake, he ferrets desperately for some escape from his futility and the fury eating at him. But he sees nothing. Jean-Philippe, a younger brother, who looked up to him, whom he protected when they were young, who followed his advice, whom he guided, and cared for and steered to the priesthood and even encouraged to come here, that most honorable role of missionary, which — and this now sears du Barre to his core — he had thought, in the grip of his own clawing ambition, might serve him well in court.

  “And I want two hundred muskets.”

  “Two hundred!” The priest chokes in his vexation.

  “I have a people to protect, not just a village.”

  With each demand du Barre’s rebellion against his powerlessness erupts further; he rages at his own impotence.

  “The Iroquois know some of you are worth money, a lot more than furs. That is why they are here and not attacking the Wendat. They will wipe out this party and take you, and Samuel and those two, torture you, and sell your breathing carcasses to the English. Richelieu will have to bargain and pay for your release and you will return to France, broken, disgraced and disfigured. Finished. Richelieu will abandon New France. Which all suits me fine. All if I do nothing. But I need guns.”

  “Torture?” De Clemont grasps de Valery’s sleeve in panic.

  De Valery, suddenly alert to what could unfold, asks, “Why are they not attacking us now?”

  “They need light to take hostages,” replies Brulé. “They have a couple of French to torture now. Then they will attack in the morning. They do not think you can get away.”

  Du Barre feels everyone’s eyes on him. He had orchestrated his authority carefully with those on the expedition. He created a cult of it, elevated himself and buried all intimacies and allies. Now, as he looks to Champlain, the nobles and his soldiers, he sees he is completely alone.

  Then de Clemont yells, “God damn it, du Barre, get us out of here!” and that one comment severs whatever vestiges of control the priest still held. Everyone clamours at once — soldiers, aides, Champlain, the nobles. His tightly defined fabric of authority unravels, its dynamic swiftly shifting. His ambition, his imperious certainty, his divine authority break and dissolve before him. The reality of what lies ahead he now faces for the first time.

  “I cannot leave him. I cannot,” he says amid the noise of the company’s shifting loyalties and search for direction. Suddenly, he bellows, a long howl of frustration and fury, “This dumb brute of a Godless land!” The entire company falls silent, staring as this receptacle and edifice of the crown, crushed and chastened, slumps in defeat.

  Brulé turns to Champlain, the reins of leadership firm in his hands. He realizes how their plan can unfold, every past delay, in fact, now feeding into their success. It is possible. But far from certain.

  “Samuel, write a statement with my three points, for the same trade arrangement, for the case against the Wendat who killed Marquette and for the guns. I want both of you and du Barre to sign it. Petashwa, my friend, I need you to take the letter to Québec. Now. Leave now, with two Algonquin. You can be on the Smoke River and out of danger before anything happens here with the Iroquois.”

  “But Etienne,” says Champlain, “we do not have two hundred muskets in Québec.”

  Brulé grasps the two satchels of gold coins from Atsan who has just retrieved them from their canoe. “We will get forty now and you can order the rest to come with the ships next spring from France.” He passes the two bags to Petashwa, “It is the life of the Wendat you hold in your hands, my brother.”

  Petashwa takes the gold, “You have my word, Etienne.”

  Du Barre gazes on the scene, numb and defeated, his influence stripped and spent. He thinks about the court, knowing what is going on at this very moment here in camp sounds the death knell of his career. There will be nothing but mockery from Richelieu for this.

  “The Iroquois will leave a group to guard their canoes,” Brulé explains to Champlain. “The others will be here, waiting to attack at daybreak. At first light, I will attack the Iroquois camp with Atsan, Savignon and Tonda. You must be ready at that moment to escape. When the Iroquois hear our attack, those who are here will race back to protect their canoes. Otherwise they will be stranded. In their mind, you have no escape. They think they have you. If Charon is alive and we escape, we will catch up to you.”

  It sounds good. Almost reasonable. But the plan is desperate, mad, cobbled together in crisis. Yet he has set it in motion and would not change it now. He motions to Atsan, Savignon and Tonda. Moving away from the rest of the company, they gather in a circle facing one another.

  Brulé outlines what must unfold step by step. Tonda’s eyes grow bright, his broad muscular body beginning to twitch in anticipation — fearless, impatient even for the fight ahead. Live or die, this is what Tonda feels he is made for. This plan of Brulé’s fills him with a vast relief. Atsan feels himself swell into it. Tonda begins to chant. A war chant. He leads and the other three join in. He takes his knife and makes a short deep cut in his forearm. A thick line of blood flows down his arm into his hand. The others do the same. They join hands, their blood mingling, and then each draws three lines of blood on their upper arm and then on the person next to them. “One blood, one life,” declares Tonda, concluding the ceremony, but not the pledge or the power of what they have just done. They will live or die together in this. Brulé’s eyes meet Atsan’s. They gleam in anticipation.

  As they conclude their vow and bond, Champlain calls to Savignon. In his hands, he holds a beautiful, new, brocade and velvet frock coat, masterfully crafted, a deep, rich blue with green trim. “I will keep it for you and give it to you tomorrow,” he says. But Savignon shakes his head and takes it from him. The two nobles marvel at how fresh and clean it is, reminding them of home and civilization.

  Savignon holds it up. Then he pulls out his knife and cuts into the sleeves at the shoulder and rips them both off, so it is sleeveless like his old one. The two nobles stare in disbelief at the destruction, reminding them yet again of how fragile civilization seems out here. Savignon takes off the old coat, puts on the new one and reties his belt over it. He looks at it grimly, knowing he will take this new prize to battle.

  De Valery puts his hand on Savignon’s arm, “I will tell her, Savignon, how brave you looked going to fight in your new coat.” His words surprise him for they acknowledge clearly and without doubt the gravity and danger of what these fou
r men are about to attempt on their behalf. Savignon looks him in the eye, but de Valery has never before seen a look like that.

  An hour later, Brulé walks down to the shore with Champlain. “Petashwa will be across the lake by now and safely away.” Atsan, Savignon and Tonda are already in the canoe. He knows he must turn to say goodbye to Champlain, but hesitates, aware he avoids the man. He doesn’t want any emotion, any cracks of sympathy or sorrow invading the grim resolve he now feels and must sustain. Brulé gives him a quick hug and sees the tears in Champlain’s eyes. “I will see you in the morning, Samuel,” he assures him as he gets in the canoe. They push off and disappear into the dark.

  Du Barre watches as their canoe slips into the night. A loon calls out from across the lake. The wild, crazy cry of the loon. And then almost in answer, in the far distance, a scream, the wild, terrible scream of a man. Du Barre’s face turns the picture of terror.

  They paddle well out from shore in the dark, the light of the moon diffuse behind high clouds. The French camp lies four hundred yards behind them now. With each stroke of their paddles they pull, then rotated to slide them forward through the water, then pull again. The blade never leaves the water for fear the moving, wet blade might catch some reflection and alert a watchful Iroquois. Their paddles make no sound. But in truth the Iroquois are engaged. Their bodies, covered in sweat and the grease of war paint, gleam as they dance around their huge bonfire. They drum and scream and wail.

  Brulé puts down his paddle and pulls out a small, brass telescope. He focuses on the camp, the number of Iroquois, the canoes, the layout. A wall of rock surrounds and protects the campsite. He has in fact camped here himself in the past. A number of Iroquois file out through a narrow gap in the rock wall. They head to the French camp in preparation to attack in the morning. He swings the telescope back to the camp and sees the French soldier. He’s tied to a tree behind the fire, his face and chest bloody and burnt. An Iroquois raises a red-hot knife to his face. He sees the whites of the soldier’s eyes, wild with pain and fear, when the knife touches his face in a cloud of smoke. They can hear his scream above the din of the Iroquois.