Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 13

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If he heard the loud commands of his master the boy paid no attention. At the first mention of D’Iberville he had thought ecstatically: “He’s coming! He’s coming home at last! I’ll be able to see him!” It had not occurred to him not to go. If the hero of New France honored his old home with a visit everyone should be there to cheer for him.

He made his way through the woods in a mood of intense excitement, fearful that he would be too late to witness the arrival of the great man. “My master will be angry,” he said to himself. “I don’t care if he is! I don’t care what happens to me. I must see M’sieur Pierre.”

He had selected the cover of the trees rather than trusting himself on the white target of the river road, this being a form of caution which came instinctively to all sons of New France. The bold measures of the old governor, the Comte de Frontenac, had taught the Iroquois a lesson and there had been no raids as far north as this for several years. Still they were such sly and daring enemies that no Canadian believed he had heard for the last time the shrill and spine-tingling cry of “Cassee Koues!” with which the warriors from the land of the Long House went into battle.

As he made his way through the trees, where the heat was even more oppressive, the boy’s thoughts went back to the last occasion when he had seen the Sieur d’Iberville. It had been three years before and on a day almost as warm as this. Several of the Le Moynes were accompanying him on the expedition he was leading to Hudson’s Bay and all of Longueuil had turned out to see them leave. There had been praying and cheering, and much weeping on the part of the ladies; because, of course, many of the young men from the seigneurie were going with them.

He, Philippe, had climbed into a tree at the edge of the clearing, the better to see. His eyes had been so full of the great leader that he had hardly noticed the others. This had been a pity, as he realized later, for one of the brothers had not come back, M’sieur Louis who was called the Sieur de Châteauguay and was then no older than eighteen years. Philippe began to think now of the gallant way this boy had died, charging up to the English fort and paying no heed to the bullets until one lodged in his throat. “That brave Louis!” said Philippe to himself. “He was D’Iberville’s favorite brother and no one was ever finer.” He began to think, as he had often done before, that he would like that kind of death for himself. How splendid it would be to look down from up there in the sky and hear people talking about you and saying how brave you had been!

“I wish I was a Le Moyne!” he said aloud.

He stopped dead at that, realizing that he should know better than to entertain such thoughts, even in the inner recesses of his mind. The Le Moynes were a great and powerful and wealthy family. Their greatness did not come from any inheritance of aristocratic blood. Old M’sieur Charles, the father who had died full of honor more than ten years before, had been the son of an innkeeper of Dieppe. The family was remarkable because all of the ten sons, by some miracle, had seemed to come from the same mold, all sharing the qualities of their sire—courage, coolness, resource, the highest of ideals. Philippe had heard someone speak of them as fabulous. He had no idea what the word meant but there was something about the sound which suited it to the Le Moynes.

Standing motionless, with a hand pressed against the trunk of a tree, he said to himself: “They would be ashamed to have a puny bag of bones like me one of them.” He knew all his own faults perfectly well because they were dinned into his ears from morning to night. He sighed and said aloud, “I’m where I belong and I must give up such foolish thoughts.”

Thinking of his shortcomings brought the boy to an abrupt realization that he was afraid. This was not surprising. There was no living soul within a quarter mile of where he stood and an ominous quiet had settled down over the forest. He strained to catch any sound of the snapping of twigs under savage feet and he expected every moment to see painted faces staring at him from behind the trunks of trees. He jumped when a bird piped up above him, sure that it was the first note of the terrible Iroquois battle cry.

Then he pulled himself together and said, “I’m not a Le Moyne but I must try to act like one.” He refused to hurry after that and even essayed to whistle “Rossignolet Sauvage,” the first tune which came into his head. It was with a sense of intense relief that finally he saw light ahead and knew that he had reached the edge of the common of Longueuil. If he had been in any danger it was over.

Never had the château looked grander or more impressive. Standing in the middle of the common, its towers seemed to stretch up higher than ever before. The cluster of roofs showing above the wall had a city-like density. The sculptured figures in the chapel niches gave an air of grandeur as well as sanctity to the pile. The sun glinted on metal from the top of one of the corner towers and Philippe knew that it came from the musket of a guard stationed there. This was a symbol of the security he had reached.

Twelve-and-One-More, the baker of Longueuil and the cook of the château (no one ever called him by his name, which was François Dandin), was working at the outside oven. There was an oven inside, of course, built in the cellar at the base of one of the huge chimneys, and this was large enough to supply all the needs of the household. In planning the château, however, Charles Le Moyne had been lavish about everything. The outside oven, which was raised on columns of stone and had double doors of cast iron, was for emergency use. The fact that the baker was tending it himself was proof of the extent of the preparations being made for the day.

Twelve-and-One-More was a giant, standing an even seven feet without his shoes and weighing some fabulous number of pounds. He had an immense round head with bristling black hair and a set of features as cruel and malignant as the mask of an Eastern magician. His appearance, however, was entirely misleading. The baker of Longueuil was as gentle as most men of abnormal size. His voice was thin and friendly and he was often seen with birds perched on his shoulders.

He looked up from raking at the coals under the oven when Philippe drew near. “It’s my small friend,” he said. “I expected you today. You have that piece of carving you promised me, no?”

The boy shook his head. “I had the figure finished, M’sieur Twelve-and-One-More, a soldier with long mustaches and a very fierce expression. I think it was good. But my master found it and said he would see how much it would bring in Montreal. I haven’t heard a word about it since.”

The cook said in his treble voice: “He has sold it, that Old Kirkinhead, that clutch-purse! He has hidden the money away. He’s a very bad man, your master. Whenever I see him I think how easy it would be, and how very pleasant, to take him in my hands and squeeze all the meanness out of him. I would like to do it because of the way he treats you, my small friend Philippe.”

“I’ll carve another for you, M’sieur Twelve-and-One-More,” promised the boy.

The baker said “Good!” and then stooped over to rake at the fire. “When M’sieur Pierre gets here,” he added, “he’ll find Twelve-and-One-More hasn’t forgotten what he likes. Three dozen loaves I’m baking and enough cake to satisfy every sweet tooth in Longueuil. Tonight for the supper en famille”—he straightened up and nodded his head importantly—“there will be a bisque of pigeons and cockscombs. There will be my salade Longueuil—ah, my small friend, what a salade!—and a pasty with every kind of game in it as well as two dozen juicy young squirrels. For the dessert crêpes de Tante Marie. My small friend, they will know tonight that I’m not only the biggest man in New France but the best cook.”

The boy was noticing that tenants and their families were arriving already by paths through the woods. The sound of voices reached them from all directions and there was a creak of wheels on the Chambly Road. A male voice was singing somewhere:

“La mère étant sur les carreaux

A vu venir son fils Renaud.”

“Everyone will be here,” said the cook. “Except that master of yours and his great ox of a son-in-law. It will be a busy day for me. There’s a whole steer roasting on a spit in the courtyard. Every pot I could get my hands on is filled with hens: Mais voilà! I like to see people fill their bellies, the good St. Joseph knows I do. I like to see them dressed up and having a good time. Keep your eyes open, my friend Philippe, and you’ll see some gay costumes today.”

He opened the door of the oven. His long scoop went far back into the interior and came out with a square of cake resting on the end. The most delightful odor which had ever assailed Philippe’s nostrils filled the air. With a pleased wink Twelve-and-One-More broke off a large piece and then divided this in halves. He kept one half for himself and handed the other to the boy.

“Eat it, my small friend,” he said. “I’ll wager all the coins in my purse you’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

He had made a safe boast. The cake was filled with almond paste, which was completely strange to Philippe’s palate. In addition it was filled with unusual spices and there were so many fat raisins in it that they threatened to pop out at the slightest pressure of the hand. Philippe had never tasted anything which could be compared to this divine food.

The cook watched him with a shake of the head. The boy’s face was thin and his eyes had a withdrawn look which was disturbing in one so young. It was clear that he was finding it easier to live within the four walls of his own mind. “That Old Kirkinhead!” said Twelve-and-One-More to himself. “He’s starving this poor little fellow.”

“Is it, Philippe,” he asked finally, “that your master is sparing with the food?”

“No, m’sieur,” protested the boy. “I have plenty to eat.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t understand the appetites of growing boys. You’re much too thin, my Philippe. And that old cheese nipper makes you do the work of a man.” He broke off another slab and divided it between them. Feeding his own share into his great gristmill of a mouth, he continued to air his unfavorable opinion of the builder. “He will be the only one to keep his men at work today. He has no decency of feeling, that dried-up pod of a man. He forgets everything M’sieur Pierre has done for us.” The trend of his thoughts having been diverted to the exploits of D’Iberville, he became easier in mood. “It’s hard to believe that such a great man was born and grew up right here. I remember when he was a rough little fellow with a quick word and a laugh and a blow always on tap. You, Philippe, are not like your master, you have a heart inside you; and so you can see it as a miracle, as I do, that this rough-and-tumble boy, this Pierre le Moyne, is now the greatest fighter on land and on sea in the whole world. It makes one think deeply on God’s purpose.” He brushed the crumbs from his mouth. “And now I must return to my work. I’ll see you later, my small Philippe.”