Читать книгу The Explorations of Père Marquette - Jim Kjelgaard - Страница 6

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Père Marquette raised himself on his bed, and blinked at the burning candle. Outside, a moaning wind plucked at the little house in the trees and rattled the shingles. Père Marquette closed his eyes and opened them again, wanting to make sure he saw this night scene correctly.

Père Druilettes still bent over the bed. Partly hidden in the moving shadows beyond the candle's flickering light was a strange, wild creature who might have stepped out of some terrible dream.

His face, naturally dark, looked almost black in the candle's feeble light. The lower part of his body was hidden in shadow; the upper part was clad in some silken fur. A fur cap covered most of his head without hiding a ragged scar which trailed from the base of his ear to the point of his chin.

Only when Père Marquette had fully awakened did he realize that this was an Indian who had come to visit them.

Père Druilettes shook Père Marquette's shoulder again. "Are you awake, Jacques?"

"Yes. Yes, I am awake."

"Then we must go. Have no fear. This is Stag Horn, one of my converts. He has come for us."

Père Marquette got out of bed and dressed. He put on his shoes, smoothed his long black cassock, or robe, and went into the other room where Père Druilettes awaited with Stag Horn.

"We must hurry," Père Druilettes said. "Stag Horn's brother lies back in the forest. He has been mortally wounded in a battle with the Iroquois, and Stag Horn was unable to bring him here. If you are ready, we will go."

The silent Stag Horn led the way into the wind-lashed night. The first snow of the winter blew cold and wet against them.

Three Rivers slept. Only an Indian dog roused to snarl as they made their way to the river.

Père Marquette followed Stag Horn out onto the pier, and looked doubtfully at the little canoe bobbing beside it. It seemed a tiny thing in which to brave the mighty St. Lawrence, but neither Stag Horn nor Père Druilettes hesitated.

Père Druilettes turned to the younger Jesuit.

"Take the middle seat, Jacques. You will not be expected to wield a paddle on this trip, but remember not to move. The canoes are seaworthy as long as they are treated with respect."

"I will remember," Père Marquette promised.

While Stag Horn held the stern of the canoe and Père Druilettes steadied the bow, Père Marquette embarked. He did it clumsily, and was aware of his lack of skill. At the same time, he was aware of Stag Horn's silent contempt for anyone who did not know how to handle a canoe.

Père Marquette made a firm resolution. Plainly, if a man wished to work among Indians he must live like an Indian. He must learn to do anything they could do. What is more, he must become equally as skilled as they in all the crafts of forest and water. Père Marquette told himself that he would learn.

Stag Horn and Père Druilettes took their places, and the little canoe started across the angry river. Père Marquette drew his cassock a little closer about him, and pulled his hat more firmly onto his head. It was very cold and the snow fell faster. The wind treated him more cruelly than his companions, for he had not the exercise of paddling to keep him warm.

As Père Marquette tried to control his chattering teeth, he watched the small canoe cut across the rolling waves. It seemed a foolhardy, almost a suicidal mission to brave such a river in this craft. With conscious effort he hid his fear.

Finally they were in quiet water. They had, Père Marquette guessed, crossed the mighty St. Lawrence and were in a small tributary. He worked cold-cramped fingers and flexed his legs, trying not to move. Still he must have disturbed the paddlers. Stag Horn said something in his own language and Père Druilettes translated.

"You must not make even a small motion, Jacques."

Hours passed, but still they remained on the water. Père Marquette wondered at Stag Horn, who must have made the journey to Three Rivers all alone and now, without even a short rest, was going back. By slow degrees the night lifted.

They were on a small, still creek whose waters looked almost black in the morning light. Snow dusted the banks and the branches of the evergreens that overhung the creek. Shell ice clung to the rocks and sticks in their path.

Père Marquette saw and marveled. It must be impossible, he thought, to travel far through this land of tangled swamps and brooding forests. Fortunately, it was cut by numberless waterways that furnished means of transportation.

Were it not for the water and the canoeman's art, North America might for many centuries have remained an unexplored wilderness.

It was well into the morning when Stag Horn spoke again. At once Père Druilettes stopped paddling. Handling the little craft alone, Stag Horn steered it towards the bank. The Indian thrust his paddle into the mud and held the canoe with it.

"From here we must go by land, Jacques," said Père Druilettes. "Gather up your cassock when you disembark, for if you do not it will get wet."

Père Marquette gathered the skirts of his long, black robe and tucked them into his belt. He stepped from the canoe into the water, and felt a little pleasure because he seemed to have done it successfully. At any rate, the canoe had not rocked. Père Druilettes joined him.

Looking at neither priest, Stag Horn disembarked, carried his canoe up the bank, laid it near a tree, and without so much as glancing over his shoulder, plunged into the forest.

Père Druilettes fell in behind him, with Père Marquette bringing up the rear. He was so thoroughly chilled that he could not stop his teeth from chattering. His legs stung from contact with the icy water, but at least walking was physical exertion. He no longer had to sit in a cramped canoe and let the cold work its will. Then his effort to walk as swiftly as Stag Horn brought warmth back to his body.

The Indian plunged into the forest, seeming to find his path by some keen sense of his own. A snorting bull moose, jet-black against the white background, paced clumsily out of their way. Père Marquette winced when a patch of snow fell from a branch upon his unprotected neck.

A half-hour after they left the river, faint in the distance, Père Marquette heard the howling of Indian dogs. A few minutes later he caught the pungent odor of wood smoke. Père Druilettes dropped back to walk beside him.

"We approach the encampment, Jacques, and our reception will probably be cool. I have only two converts among this tribe, Stag Horn and The Bear. The dogs probably will attack us, and if they do nobody will lift a hand to restrain them. We must protect ourselves; the savages will not respect us unless we do. I hope that somewhere along the way you have learned to kick hard."

Père Marquette said grimly, "I have learned many things in this new land. I shall try to learn one more."

They came to the camp, and Père Marquette looked curiously at the dozen hastily erected lodges. A little group of warriors stared coldly at them, saying nothing and making no move. A couple of children ran behind the lodges. Then the dogs came.

They were a snarling pack of curs, ranging in size from small beasts that weighed fifteen or twenty pounds to huge animals whose wolf blood was very evident. Père Druilettes walked to meet them. He kicked one of the bigger dogs squarely under the chin, and the creature retreated to the rear of the pack. The rest snarled forward.

Père Marquette kicked a dog in the ribs and moved in to kick again. The raging pack, meeting their masters in the two Jesuits, fled.

Père Marquette wiped the perspiration from his forehead and followed Père Druilettes. A pack of half-starved dogs was not the greatest obstacle he had expected to overcome in this new world but, he had to admit, it was one of the most unnerving.

At that moment he saw Stag Horn and another Indian arguing in front of a skin-covered lodge, and Père Marquette looked with interest upon the stranger.

He was stockily built, and his body was naked save for a breechcloth that swished about his thighs. His hat was the stuffed head of a skunk, from which a piece of furry skin hung down upon his neck. The man's face was horribly streaked with red and black, and a red sunburst glowed on either arm. He and Stag Horn were exchanging angry words.

Père Druilettes stopped just short of the pair, and Père Marquette halted beside him.

"It is the medicine man," Père Druilettes explained. "Such people know only heathenish rites and are ever our bitter enemies. When we come, and if we triumph, they must go. That is why they do not like us."

"What must we do now?"

Père Druilettes said calmly, "I will go in to Stag Horn's brother."

He stepped forward, and as he did the medicine man became dangerously quiet. Père Druilettes, never hesitating, took another forward step.

Père Marquette wished to cry a warning, to tell of what must come, for he saw evil in the medicine man's eyes. Suddenly, so swiftly that it seemed to have come out of thin air, the medicine man waved a tomahawk. He swung with deadly aim.

At that moment there was a choking cry and the medicine man staggered on nerveless feet. His tomahawk dropped into the snow, and he bent at the knees.

Stag Horn calmly jerked his knife from the medicine man's ribs and wiped it on his coat. Père Druilettes disappeared in the lodge.

Père Marquette, fighting back his first spell of sickness, knelt beside the dying medicine man. He bathed him with holy water from his flask and intoned the words of baptism.