Читать книгу The Red Ranger - H. A. Cody - Страница 6

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No one interfered with LeNoir as he wandered aimlessly about the ship. The sailors were friendly and watched him with considerable curiosity. And, in fact, he was a strange specimen of humanity. His black hair, streaked with gray, falling to his shoulders, and his long unkempt beard gave him a savage appearance. His rough buckskin jacket and trousers were ragged, and his moccasins were almost worn out, especially at the toes. He moved with a noiseless gliding motion as one accustomed to the forest trails, and ever on the alert for some unseen enemy. As a sailor is known by his walk, so is a man who has spent years in the woods betrayed by his movements. Never before had these sailors beheld such a queer creature in human form, and they discussed him with much animation. And they were odd-looking beings themselves, with their strange costumes, rings in their ears, and long black moustaches, with pistols and cutlasses at their sides. But they did not consider their own appearance at all strange so accustomed were they to it. But this new arrival was out of the ordinary, and that was enough to make them wonder and speculate.

Pierre, however, was not interested in these Dutchmen. He had eyes only for the frigate, and nothing escaped him. On every side he beheld tell-tale marks of fights in which the frigate had been engaged. There were scars on masts and spars where the wood had been splintered by cannon balls, and the deck-rails showed unmistakable signs where axes and cutlasses had bitten deep. He saw, too, the big guns, blunderbusses, powder-horns, boarding gear and other accoutrements of warfare. And well aft he saw his own canoe near several ship's boats. He pretended not to notice it, for he was well aware that he was being watched, and that any attempt to escape just then would be fatal. But how he did long to throw that canoe overboard and leap after it. With the craft righted and paddle in hand, he felt that he could outstrip any boat that might follow.

He was given a good dinner, the best he had eaten for some time. Then supplied with pipe and tobacco his spirits revived. But for the thought of Lucille's danger and LeRoi's son so near he would have been quite happy among these friendly Dutchmen. More than once he had longed for such a life as these men lived, moving from place to place, ever beholding new scenes. Often around his fire at night when the stark loneliness of the wilderness was almost maddening he had dreamed of a life at sea, and regretted that he had not become a sailor instead of a fur-trader. But it was too late now, for he was past sixty, and too old to learn the ways of the sea.

It was well on in the afternoon before he beheld LeRoi again. Of the captain he had seen nothing since morning. He had remained in his cabin, asleep, no doubt, in preparation for the strenuous work ahead. Pierre was standing at the bow, looking up towards the falls when he saw a boat suddenly appear around the eastern side of the island. Several men were on board, and among them he noticed LeRoi. He needed no words to tell him that the Frenchman had paid a visit to the place where his father had died. He stared at the boat as it drew near. What were LeRoi's thoughts as he stood within the old fort? he wondered. Suppose those rotten logs could speak, what a tale they could unfold.

He was aroused by a voice at his side.

"Watching for the tide to turn?"

It was LeRoi. Pierre shook his head.

"The tide will not turn for some time yet."

"It will be dark, then, before we get far on our way."

"Oh, no. But it will ere we reach Fort Jemseg. But that will not matter."

"You know the river as well by night as by day, eh?"

"Yes. Night or day is all the same to me."

LeRoi made no immediate reply, but stood staring straight before him. There was a serious expression in his eyes, and his usually cheerful manner had vanished.

"My, what a desolate place this is!" he at length exclaimed as a slight shiver shook his body. "That old fort sent the chills up and down my spine. Those rotten logs and the smell of decay on all sides were most depressing. I cannot shake off the feeling. And to think that my father died there at the hands of his traitor friend! Oh, if I could only find him!"

Pierre shrank away a little, but LeRoi did not notice his movement. Neither did he look at his companion. His thoughts were elsewhere.

"A strange feeling came over me as I stood in that fort," he continued. "My father's spirit seemed to be present there, and once I really believed I saw his form."

"It was only imagination," Pierre murmured, his body trembling.

"Most likely it was, my friend. But it was very real, nevertheless. And so was the depression that settled upon me. It seemed as if something terrible is about to happen to me as it did to my father."

"Ah that was due to the closeness and dampness of the fort. It's an uncanny place."

"It is and I never want to go there again. I feel better now, though, but it is hard to shake off that strange mood I had while there. I wonder if it means anything."

"Nothing, nothing I assure you. I had a queer feeling myself when I visited that fort. You will get over your depression in a short time."

The sun had set as the Flying Horse plowed her way up the river. She had come through the falls on the flood tide, up between those high rugged rocks at which the sailors had stared in wonder. Then she moved out into the expansive water above and up through the Long Vue driven by a favoring west wind. The first island, Isle au Garce, was straight ahead, and LeNoir, standing well at the bow, was peering forward with strained anxious eyes. The darkness was deepening, and he planned to keep as far as possible to the western shore that his post on the island might not be discovered. He had delayed sailing as long as he could. But the commander had become impatient, and had ordered the sails set as soon as the tide served, so Pierre could do nothing. Another half hour would have made a great difference to him. His only hope now was that no one would be seen on the island, for then the Dutchmen would consider it uninhabited and pass by without stopping.

Jurriaen Aernouts, with John Rhoade at his side, was standing a short distance away, and near him was LeRoi. There was an eager look in the commander's eyes, for new conquests were ahead of him. He was flushed with victory, and the Flying Horse bore rich trophies from Penobscot and other places he had successfully raided. He was a man of indomitable courage and determination. He had to be so, for no coward or weakling could handle a crew of rough sea pirates, one hundred and ten in all, in uncharted waters, and with enemies on every side ready to beat him down. The sea was the only life he knew and he revelled in it. His one great ambition was to win for Holland the whole of Acadia, to drive out the French and make it a Dutch colony. He would be another Van Tromp and sweep the seas of his enemies. And so far he had met with considerable success aided by the "accomplished adventurer and pirate" John Rhoade, whom he had procured at Boston, and who knew the weak condition of the French posts in Acadia.

His was an imperious spirit and while he tolerated such men as Rhoade and LeRoi for the use he could make of them, he considered them like his sailors as mere tools for the carrying out of his designs. And for the captive Pierre he never gave him a second thought. Such a creature was beneath contempt, a miserable Frenchman, an outcast in this great wilderness. He would not deign to approach such an unkempt being. One glance at his appearance had been sufficient to fill his soul with disgust. Rhoade and LeRoi could attend to him, while he gave his mind to more important things.

The sight of this arrogant commander enraged Pierre. He had not seen much of him until the vessel had left the island for her run up river. Aernouts had remained in his cabin most of the time, leaving the management of the crew to Rhoade. Now, however, as he stood not far away Pierre was able to study him closely. He saw a man sturdy and strong, every inch a leader. He was unmistakeably Dutch from his neatly-trimmed pointed beard and mustachio, to the wide-leaved, loosely-shaped cock-hat of dark felt, with a cord around the top. His neck was encircled with a ruff. Over a tawny leather doublet was a loose surcoat of gray frieze, with breeches to match. Long boots came almost to the hips, and at his side hung a sword. This completed his costume. Pierre's eyes narrowed as he watched him, and his anger increased. So this was the man who was to drive out the French! He thought of Lucille and his own humble unprotected post. He glanced around the vessel and despair filled his heart. Fate, irresistible and terrible, seemed to abide here, ready to sweep down and destroy all he deemed most precious.

A sudden excitement among the sailors attracted his attention. They were looking and pointing away to the north where a wonderful spectacle was presented to view. The whole sky was illumined as if by great unseen fires. Blood-red streamers flashed forth in quivering waves. They met, spread out and retreated, only to sweep up again more terrible than ever. So brilliant was the light that its reflection caused the river to glow like a stream of blood. Forked tongues shot out, and the startled watchers imagined they could hear hissing sounds. It was an awe-inspiring scene and Pierre's heart was filled with fear. It was a sign of disaster. The Indians had told him that whenever that spectacle appeared it meant danger of a most frightful nature. Instinctively he crossed himself as if to ward off some impending doom. And so did LeRoi. But to the sailors it had no such meaning and when the fiery splendor began to subside they discussed it in the most animated manner.

Pierre, however, paid no attention to them, for his eyes were centred upon a wisp of smoke circling above the tops of the trees on the western side of the island. The commander saw it too, and he turned to LeRoi.

"Ask the guide the meaning of that smoke," he ordered. "There are people on that island, and we must investigate."

Pierre knew that the critical moment had now arrived. He surmised what Aernouts was saying, and a dull despair settled upon him. And to add to his misery, several forms could be seen moving along the shore. The fate of his post was sealed, and he was helpless. He heard LeRoi speaking to him, but so confused was his brain that he hardly knew what he said in reply. He was only aware that the vessel swerved suddenly to the left and headed for the western channel. This would bring them in sight of his post, and then what would become of Lucille?

At the entrance to the narrow channel on the western side of the island the Flying Horse was brought up to the wind and the anchor run out. Notwithstanding Pierre's statement that it was merely a small and unprotected trading post, Aernouts determined to take no risk. The guide might be deceiving him so he ordered the guns to be made ready, and everything prepared for a bombardment. He peered keenly forward through the deepening twilight, and saw a portion of a palisade. It looked to him as if guns were mounted upon that rude structure, ready to pour forth their messages of death. It was necessary to be most cautious. He turned to LeRoi.

"Tell that miserable guide that if he has deceived us in the strength of that post, he will go up to the yard-arm this very night."

When this had been communicated to Pierre he shrank back, lifted his hands and swore that he had spoken the truth.

"The post is undefended, Monsieur," he declared. "I have not lied. There are no guns, and only two or three people live there. Tell the commander so."

But still Aernouts was not satisfied. He was suspicious of everything, even of his own men, so he felt that he could not place much reliance upon the word of a contemptible guide. And LeRoi might be in league with him. He didn't have much use for Frenchmen, anyway. He believed they could not be trusted.

"Very well. We shall soon see," was all he said, as he turned and walked away.

It was growing dark now, and as Pierre waited in apprehension for what might happen under cover of night, the roar of a cannon startled him. The bombardment had begun. Then another and another shot was fired and he could hear the crash of timbers where the bullets fell. But no reply came from the island. Pierre thought of Lucille. His only hope was that she had made good her escape with Noel and Marie. They had a canoe, so it would not be difficult for them to get away.

After the bombardment, boats were lowered and men crowded on board. All were anxious to be first in the attack and win whatever booty was to be had. Pierre watched them as they rowed away from the frigate. He was well aware what havoc such men would make of his humble abode, and how they would carry off all his belongings except one treasure, and he was sure they would not find that. He would have something left, anyway, and if only Lucille should not fall into the hands of the pirates he would not mind so much. He would rebuild again as soon as he had his liberty and the Dutchmen had left the river.

The thought of escape had been ever in his mind since his capture. Perhaps this was his opportunity. In their excitement over attacking the post, the raiders had forgotten all about their guide. He looked cautiously around, but no one was watching him. He could see the dim forms of several men on the side of the ship nearest the island, but otherwise the frigate was deserted. The mainland was near, and he was a strong swimmer.

He waited a while, however, for the darkness to deepen. Then moving swiftly along the deck, he climbed up over the high rail and lowered himself over the starboard side. Almost noiselessly he slipped into the water and with strong steady strokes made for the shore. No one had heard him, and from the clamor that reached his ears he could tell that the raiders had forgotten all about him. He swam easily, and when at length his feet touched bottom, he waded ashore, shook himself like a spaniel and looked over at the island. All was confusion there, while the yells, shouts and smashing of boards and timbers told of the destruction that was taking place. Lifting his clenched fist he shook it fiercely at the ship and then at the raiders on the island. Not a sound did he make. His rage was beyond words.

For a while he stood there, watching and listening. He knew that the enemy could not catch him, but he was too near the Flying Horse to feel comfortable. He would go to the hill straight across from the island, and once there he knew that the Dutchmen could never find him. He almost wished that they would pursue him, for the forest was his home, and there among the intricate ways of the great trees he could easily confound the raiders and settle his score, perhaps, with some of them.

It did not take him long to follow the shore around the cove above, and reach the high hill overlooking the island. At once a bright light across the water startled him. He knew its meaning. The raiders were burning his post! He saw the flames shooting up like fiery tongues into the night, and the forms of men watching their work of destruction, shouting, yelling and singing in wildest glee.