Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 16

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he flotilla was now in full sight.

The four canoes on their way up the river were filled with men in blue coats who sang and laughed and made the echoes ring about them, their paddles moving in perfect rhythm. When it is considered that in the first of the four sat Pierre le Moyne, Sieur d’Iberville, it becomes easy to understand that the blood of the watchers tingled with excitement and exultation.

They forgot the heat as they crowded to the water’s edge. They jumped up and down, and waved their arms, and shouted a welcome to the man who had won so many battles for them; the man who had once accomplished the incredible feat of leading an expedition through the dense forest all the way to Hudson’s Bay and had captured all the English forts except the one he now proposed to attack, who was equally at home on quarterdeck or forest trail, who had never been beaten and never conceivably could be beaten, the unique, colorful, lovable, gloriously great M’sieur Pierre of Longueuil.

Philippe had struggled and pushed his way through the crowd until he stood at the edge of the mouille-pieds (a term used thereabouts for wharfs which meant “wet feet”) where the seigneur waited for his famous brother with a small group made up of the members of the family and Joseph de Mariat. He was so close to this privileged few that he could hear everything said. Needless to state, he listened and watched with the most intense interest.

He heard the seigneur deliver a long speech for the benefit of De Mariat on the greatness of D’Iberville. “Pierre is no ordinary mortal. He’s more like a god of battle out of the Norse legends. He fights in a mist, in a furious white heat, and with an unconquerable will to win. He sees everything, nevertheless, and can direct the movements of his men and all his ships as coolly as though he stood off to one side. He is—well, all I can say is that he’s D’Iberville. There has never been another like him.” There was a pause and then the seigneur asked, “Have you met him on any of his visits to France?”

Philippe heard a deep voice answer, “The honor of setting eye for the first time on this new Bayard you’ve contributed for the glory of France is mine at this moment.”

The boy, finding himself unable to see anything at all, began a still more determined struggle for a better position. The result of his efforts was a narrow space between two backs through which he could watch the four canoes turning into the landing place. At the same time he could hear the seigneur giving further light on the character of D’Iberville.

“You’re going to see him in his most human phase, my friend Joseph. He always goes about like a comet with a long tail. Who but the great D’Iberville would arrive like this, with four canoes packed with friends? He has—let me count—twenty-eight men and a dog with him. I’m ready to lay a wager I won’t know any of them any better than I know that great loup-garou of a dog.”

Philippe had already given eye to each man in the four long canoes. Most of them, he had decided, were “rabbits,” the term used by the colonists for strangers. Many were soldiers or sailors. There were two Indians from the Hudson’s Bay country. They were of the tribe of Gros Ventres (Big Bellies), although that name, which French traders had coined, seemed much out of place when applied to the spare-flanked and gravely dignified pair who sat in the first canoe with D’Iberville. The hardest one in the company to account for was a man in a black coat who had the dog on a chain leash. He looked as though his face had stiffened into a mold, and he was showing no interest at all in the noise and excitement of the arrival. The boy heard the seigneur endeavor to explain the presence of this individual. “There’s always with Pierre at least one curious fellow like this. Usually he doesn’t remember where he found them and always he gives them the quick boot. They never amuse him after the first few minutes.”

The canoes were now so close that Philippe could make out the shining blue of D’Iberville’s eye. The appearance of the hero thrilled him from head to foot. “He looks like a god!” he thought. He saw the great man raise a hand and wave as he shouted, “Hallo, my friends! Hallo, everyone!” In a few moments the first canoe came abreast of the landing place and the spectators backed to make room for the new arrivals, with the result that the boy was driven into a position where he could see nothing at all. However, he could hear D’Iberville issuing orders. “Easy, back there! One at a time. Draw up well under the bank. The current is deceptive.” Philippe knew when he came ashore because his voice was close as he said, “You do me great honor, Charles, in having all my friends here to meet me.”

The eager spirit of the boy could not abide that the great moments were passing while he was unable to see a thing. In a kind of fury he began to paw at the backs in front of him. Finally he achieved the desired result, he had wedged himself between two indignant grownups and again had a narrow space through which he could watch what was going on in the center of the mouille-pieds. He could see the curling yellow hair and the bold features of the great leader. Knowing this to be a moment he must always remember, the boy searched out every detail avidly. He saw that D’Iberville had changed a great deal after three years of continuous fighting. He was taller than the men about him and powerfully built. He was handsomely attired (as boys like their heroes to be) in a plum-colored coat with long tails and lace at the wrists, and a cascade of more lace at the throat. His gray breeches fitted his well-shaped legs tightly. This was all Philippe was allowed to see at the moment, for a bulky shoulder moved into the gap and cut off his view. After that he had to be content with hearing what was said.

“There was no summons,” he heard the seigneur explain. “Everyone flocked here when they knew you were coming. Even old Paul Loisel on his crutches. Ah, my Pierrot, you’ve won for us again! How we thrilled at the news!”

“Yes, things move,” came the voice of D’Iberville. “We have Newfoundland now. The bay next—before the first snow flies, I pray. And then, my brother, the important steps begin.” His voice fell to a pensive note. “I wish this next campaign was over and done with! I confess to a weariness for the ice and fogs of Mort Bay.”

“I don’t see Paul. Didn’t he come with you?”

This reference was to the Sieur de Maricourt, fourth of the brothers. Although he had played his part in all the campaigns of the past twenty years, Paul was chiefly noted for his skill in dealing with the Indians. In this respect he took after their father. Old M’sieur Charles had spoken several Indian languages and had been indispensable on all missions to the savages.

D’Iberville answered: “M’sieur Taouistaouisse^[5] was too busy to come this morning. You must remember, Charles, that Paul has been with me in Newfoundland from the start and hasn’t seen his wife in a year. I haven’t seen mine either and I won’t until I get back to France.”

[5]	Little-Bird-Always-in-Motion, a name given to De Maricourt by the Onondaga tribe.

“How fortunate that Marie-Thérèse will be in Paris when you arrive there this fall.”

It was clear from the tone in which D’Iberville responded that he had been taken by surprise. “This fall? I had not planned——”

Charles said in a hurried voice, “This is Monsieur de Mariat, who has come all the way from Versailles to lend us his help and the benefit of his advice.”

Someone turned at this point and a wide enough gap opened for Philippe to see all that happened from that moment on. He saw D’Iberville take the plump white hand of the visitor in his own lean palm. “We need all the help and advice we can get,” he declared, “and so Monsieur de Mariat is very welcome. There are so many things to be settled. We must all get our feet under a table at once. I confess that an uneasy bird sits on my shoulder.”

“Do you anticipate stiff opposition in the bay?” asked De Mariat.

D’Iberville nodded gravely. “There’s always stiff opposition when we meet the English. They are stout fighters. We should know that because the French and the English have been fighting for centuries.” He nodded a second time. “Certain memories rouse a hate in me for the English but at all other times I admire them. They have produced some great men, some stout fighters. None greater, I think, than that glum fellow Cromwell, who taught the world that rulers have a responsibility to their subjects.”

D’Iberville turned at this point and waved an arm to one of the Indians accompanying him. “And now, my brave Gip, you will oblige me, if you please.”

The Indian answered in clear and perfect French, “At your command, my lord.” He reached into the canoe and raised a large bundle in his arms. This he carried to D’Iberville.

“Presents!” cried the latter. “For you, Claudine,” to his sister-in-law. “And for you, Charles. Presents, in fact, for everyone in the family and for everyone who lives in Longueuil. In this bundle,” holding it up above him, “are mementos of a victory in which the men from Longueuil played a great part. It will be opened—after we have all had something to eat.”