Читать книгу The Missouri Outlaws - Aimard Gustave, Gustave Aimard, Jules Berlioz d'Auriac - Страница 5

It was the beginning of the month of October, and some sharp frosts had rid the land of mosquitoes and gnats, which during the hot season abound in myriads near watercourses and beneath the leafy arches of the virgin forest, being one of its worst scourges.

A few minutes after the rising of the sun a traveller, mounted on a magnificent horse, wearing the costume of a prairie hunter, and whose general appearance indicated a white man, emerged at a walking pace from a high thicket, and entered upon a vast prairie, at that day almost unknown to the trappers themselves, those hardy explorers of the desert – and which was not far from the Rocky Mountains, in the centre of the Indian country, and nearly two thousand miles from any settlement.

This traveller was Oliver. He had, we see, already travelled a long distance.

Two months only had elapsed, during which, going always straight before him, he had traversed all the provinces of the young American republic, never stopping except to rest himself and horse; then he had passed the frontier and entered the desert.

Then he was happy. For the first time in his life he was free and unfettered, having cut himself off forever, as he thought, from the heavy trammels of civilisation.

Oliver had at once begun his apprenticeship as a hunter, and a rude apprenticeship it is, causing many of the boldest and bravest to retreat. But Oliver was no ordinary man; he was young, of rare vigour and address, and, above all, possessed that iron will which nothing stops, and which is the secret of great deeds; that leonine courage which laughs at danger, and that indomitable pride which made him, he thought, the equal of any living being. He therefore considered nothing impossible, that is to say, he felt he could not only do what anyone else had ever done, but even more, if he were called upon by extraordinary circumstances to try.

During two months he had met with numerous adventures. He had fought many a battle, and braved dangers before which the bravest might have retreated – perils of all kinds, from man, beast, and Nature herself.

A victor in every case, his audacity had increased, his energy had redoubled. His apprentice days were over, and he now felt himself a true runner of the woods, that is to say, a man whom no appalling sight, whom no dreadful catastrophe, would terrify – in fact, one who was only to be moved by the majestic aspect of nature.

He had paused as he left the thicket to examine the scene.

Before him was a valley through which flowed two rivers, which after some time joined and fell into the Missouri, whose vast lake surface appeared like a white vapoury line on the distant horizon. Upon a promontory projecting into the first river was a superb bosquet of palms and magnolias; the latter, shaped like a perfect cone, stood in lustrous verdure against the dazzling whiteness of the flowers, which, despite the season, were still blooming. These flowers were so large that Oliver could see them a mile off.

The great majority of these magnolias were over a hundred feet high; many were very much more.

To the right was a wood of poplars, overrun with vines of enormous size, which wholly concealed the trunks. They then ran to the top of the tree, then redescending along the branches, passed from one tree to another, mixing up with piquot, a kind of creeper which hung in garlands and festoons from every bough.

The young man could not take his eyes off the magnificent spectacle. Suddenly he started, as he made out a thin column of smoke rising from the centre of the magnolia thicket.

Now the presence of smoke denotes fire, and fire indicates human beings. In nine cases out of ten, in the desert, such human beings are enemies.

It is a harsh word, but it is certain that the most cruel enemy of man in the desert, his most terrible adversary, is his fellow man.

The sight of this smoke roused no excited feelings in the bosom of our adventurer; he simply saw that his weapons were in order, and rode straight for the magnolia valley. As it happened, a narrow path led exactly in that direction.

No matter whether he was to meet friends or foes, he was not sorry to see a human face; for a week, not a white man, Métis, or Indian had fallen across his path, and, despite himself, this complete silence and absolute solitude began to tell upon him, though he would not own it even to himself.

He had passed over about one-third of the distance which separated him from the thicket, and was only a pistol shot away, when he suddenly stopped, under the influence of strange emotion.

A rich and harmonious voice rose from amidst the trees, singing with the most perfect accent a song with French words. These words came clear and distinct to his ears; the surprise of the young man may be conceived when he recognised the "Marseillaise." This magnificent work, sung in the desert by an invisible being, amidst that grand scenery, and repeated as it were by the echoes of the savannah, assumed to him gigantic proportions.

Despite himself, Oliver felt the tears come to his eyes; he pressed his hand upon his chest, as if to repress the wild beatings of his heart; in a second all his past came rushing tumultuously before him. Once more he saw in his mind's eye that France from which he believed himself forever separated, and felt how vain must ever be the effort to repudiate one's country.

Led on by the irresistible charm, he entered the thicket just as the singer gave forth in his rich and stentorian voice the last couplets.

He pushed aside some branches that checked his progress, and found himself face to face with a young man, who, seated on the grass by the riverside, near a glowing fire, was dipping biscuit in the water with one hand, while with the other, in which he held a knife, he dipped into a tin containing sardines.

Lifting up his head as the other approached, the unknown nodded his head.

"Welcome to my fireside, my friend," he said in French, with a gay smile; "if you are hungry, eat; if you are cold, warm yourself."

"I accept your offer," replied Oliver, good-humouredly, as he leaped from his horse, and removing the bridle, hoppled him near the unknown.

He then seated himself by the fire, and opening his saddlebags, shared his provisions with his new friend, who frankly accepted this very welcome addition to his own very modest repast.

The unknown was a tall young fellow about six feet high, well and solidly built; his colour, which was very dark, arose from his being of a mixed race, called from the colour of their skin Bois brulé, under which general appellation we have half-castes of all kinds.

The features of this young man, rather younger if anything than our hero, were intelligent and sympathetic with a very open look; his open forehead, shaded by curly light chestnut hair, his prominent nose, his large mouth, furnished with magnificent teeth, his fair rich beard, completed a physiognomy by no means vulgar.

His costume was that of all the trappers and hunters of high northern latitudes: mitasses of doeskin, waistcoat of the same, over which was thrown a blouse of blue linen, ornamented with white and red threads; a cap of beaver fur, and Indian moccasins and leggings reaching to the knee; from his belt of rattlesnake skin hung a long knife, called langue de boeuf, a hatchet, a bison powder horn, a ball bag, and a pipe of red-stone clay with a cherrywood tube; such was the complete costume of the person upon whom Oliver had so singularly fallen. Close to his hand on the grass was a Kentucky rifle and game bag, which doubtless he used to carry his provisions in.

"Faith," cried the adventurer, when his appetite was satisfied, "I have to thank fortune for meeting you in this way, my friend."

"Such meetings are rare in the desert. And now allow me to ask you a question."

"Ten if you like – nay, fifty."

"Well, then, how was it that the moment you saw me you addressed me in French?" he asked.

"For a very simple reason. In the first place, all the runners of the woods, trappers, and prairie hunters, are French, or at all events, ninety-five out of every hundred," he answered.

"Then of course you are French?"

"And Norman as well. My grandfather was born at Domfront. You know the proverb, Domfront, city of evil. You enter it at twelve, and are hung before one."

"I am also French," said Oliver.

"So I perceive. But to continue. My grandfather was, as I have said, from Domfront, but my father was born in Canada, as I was, so that I am a Frenchman born in America. Still we have the old country on the other side of the water, and all who come from it are received with open arms by us poor exiles. There are brave and noble hearts in Canada; if they only knew it in France they would not be so ungrateful and disdainful towards us, who never did anything to justify their cruel desertion."

"True," said Oliver, "France was very much in the wrong after you had shed so much blood for her."

"Which we would do again tomorrow," replied the Canadian. "Is not France our mother, and do we not always forgive our mother? The English were awfully taken in when the country was handed over to them; three-fourths of the population emigrated, those who remained in the towns persisted in speaking French, which no Englishman can speak without dislocating his jaws, and all would insist upon being governed by their old French laws.1 You see, therefore, that the insulars are merely nominally our masters, but that in reality we are still free, and French."

"Our country must have been deeply rooted in your hearts to cause you to speak thus," said Oliver.

"We are a brave people," cried the stranger.

"I am sure of it," responded Oliver.

"Thank you," replied the stranger, "you cause me great pleasure."

"Now that we know one another as countrymen, suppose we make more intimate acquaintance?"

"I ask nothing better. If you like, I will tell you my history as briefly as possible."

"I am attention," said Oliver.

"My father was a baby when Canada was definitively abandoned in 1758 by the French, an act which was perpetrated without consulting the population of New France. Had the mother country have done so, it would have been met by a flat refusal. But I will avoid politics, and speak only of my family."

"Good. I hate politics."

"So do I. Well, one day my grandfather Berger, after being absent a week, came to his home in Québec in company with an Indian in his full war paint. The first thing he saw, standing by the side of the cradle in which lay my father, was my grandmother, her arms raised in the air, with a heavy iron-dog, with which she was menacing an English soldier; my grandmother was a brave and courageous woman."

"So it seems."

"A true daughter of Caudebec, handsome, attractive, and good, adored by her husband, and respected by all who knew her. It appears that the English soldier had seen her through the open door. He at once entered with a conquering air, and began to make love to the pretty young person he had noticed performing her maternal office. It was an unfortunate idea for him. My grandfather lifted him up and threw him through the window on to the stones outside. He was dead. My grandfather then turned round and spoke of something else."

"A tough old gentleman!"

"Pretty solid. He even had Indian blood – "

"You spoke of Domfront."

"Yes; but his father, having come to America with Comtesse de Villiers, married in Canada. He shortly after returned to France with his wife. There she died, unable to bear the climate!"

"Very natural," said Oliver.

"Before dying she made her husband promise to send his son to Canada."

"But," continued Oliver, "the finale of your history."

"As soon as that matter was settled, my grandfather embraced his wife, offered the Indian a seat, and began smoking his pipe. He then explained that he meant to leave Canada."

"'This,' he said, 'is Kouha-hande, my mother's brother, the first sachem of his nation. He has offered me a shelter with his warriors, and has come with some of his warriors to escort us. Will you remain a Frenchwoman and follow me, or will you stay here and become an Englishwoman?'"

"'I am your wife, and shall follow you wherever you go, with my little one on my back,' she answered."

"'My sister will be loved and respected in our tribe as she deserves to be,' remarked the Indian, who had hitherto smoked his pipe in silence."

"'I know it, my cousin,' she said."

"No further words passed. My grandmother began at once to pack up. Two hours later the house was empty; my grandparents had left without even shutting the door behind them. Before sunset they were making their way up the Lawrence, in the canoes of Kouha-hande."

"The river was crowded with fugitives. After a journey of four days my grandfather reached the tribe of the Hurons-Bisons, of which our relative Kouha-hande was the first sachem. Many other Canadians sought refuge in the same place, and were hospitably received by the Indians. I need say nothing more save that we have lived there ever since."

"And your grandfather?"

"Still lives, as does my father, though I have recently lost my mother and grandmother. I have a sister much younger than myself. She remains in the village to nurse my grandfather. My father is at this moment with the Hudson Bay Company."

At this moment there was a peculiar rustling in the bushes at no great distance.

"Be quiet," whispered the Canadian in the ear of his new friend, and before the other could in any way interfere with him, he seized his gun and disappeared in the high grass, crawling on his hands and knees.

Then a shot was heard.