Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 17

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For a full hour thereafter Philippe followed his hero everywhere. He was amazed to find that the great captain had not forgotten a name and that he had a special message for each resident of Longueuil. D’Iberville shook hands and thumped backs from one end of the common to the other. The boy, never more than six feet in the rear, heard every word spoken and stored them away in his memory as something to be remembered always and treasured. The closeness of his attendance was finally noticed by M’sieur Pierre.

“Has my conscience taken human form to follow me about like this?” he demanded, facing around and confronting his shadow. He paused long enough to study the boy’s face. “I think you must be Girard’s apprentice. You’ve been growing while I’ve been away but I can never be mistaken in a face. You were found after the trouble at Lachine?”

“Yes, M’sieur Pierre,” answered Philippe, trembling at being thus noticed.

“Your interest in me is flattering, of course, but it might be a trifle inconvenient under certain circumstances. For instance, at this exact moment.” D’Iberville’s eye had lighted on the plump figure of Babette Carré strolling by, her hands tucked jauntily into the horsehair poupettes attached to the front of her green dress. “I desire a moment’s talk with an old acquaintance and our conversation can’t be expected to interest you at all, my fine young friend. You will be kind enough, then, to grant me a few moments’ respite?”

Philippe accepted the hint and took his departure. When the midday meal was served in the open, however, and the people of Longueuil seated themselves on the grass in ever widening circles about the great man, he considered himself no longer bound to keep his distance. He found a place for himself immediately on the edge of the bevy of ladies who surrounded the guest of honor. Here he could watch everything that went on and hear each word spoken. He never took his eyes from D’Iberville, observing the bold hook of the hero’s nose, the fine arch of eyebrow, and the play of expression which kept the D’Iberville face in continuous animation. He observed also certain interesting details of the leader’s attire: how he wore a chain of whinstone matrix about his neck with a birch-bark sheath to hold his table knife (guests in New France were never supplied with knives at table and so they always carried their own with them), and a ring on his finger which the boy was sure had been a gift from the King. It was, at any rate, a most remarkable ring with a huge gem which sparkled at each movement of the hand.

It did not take D’Iberville long to realize that his follower was back. “So, here you are again,” he said. He addressed himself then to the members of his feminine guard of honor. “It’s said that a man who sells his soul to the devil never casts a shadow from that day on. I call your attention to the proof that my soul is still my own. All day I’ve had two shadows—my own and this very persistent boy.”

He saw to it, however, that Philippe got a full share of everything. The boy responded to his hospitable plying by consuming several thick slices of beef, just red enough and with sizzling brown fat on the outside, both drumsticks of a fat capon, innumerable slices of bread hot from the oven and soaked in gravy, and a great slab of gâteau d’anis, the justly famed aniseed cake of New France, the secret of which had come over with the first settlers in 1608. To wash it down he drank vin de gadelles, well diluted with water, with the voracity of one to whom such a beverage was a rare treat.

There was an interruption when the meal was nearly finished. The man with the dog, who had been sitting in a daze and refusing all proffers of food, came suddenly to life. He got to his feet, said to the dog, “Not a move out of you, William Longsword,” and then drew a violin from the red indienne bag which he had carried over his shoulder. Looking in the direction of D’Iberville, he nodded his head and announced, “I am ready.”

D’Iberville nodded back. “It is time, stranger,” he said.

The stranger asked, “Can one play and sing when the mood is not right?” He proceeded to drape the bag over a small evergreen with a nod and a grin, it being the custom when a minstrel visited a tavern to attach the bag to the outside knob so that passers-by would know of his arrival.

Tucking the instrument under his chin, the minstrel swept the air with his bow and announced: “I am of a mood to sing the songs of Normandy. There are none better, my friends.”

With the first sound which issued from the strings a silence fell on the company. The minstrel had come to life with a vengeance. His face reflected every mood of the music. His voice, a rich baritone, trolled out the ballads of Rolf and his sea rovers with a heartiness which set the listeners to swaying.

All of them had heard the music before but none of them had heard it rendered with such vibrance and spirit. They sat entranced, feeling in every chord the beat of life in that stern and hardy land from which they had sprung. The music sang to them of Senlac, of the rough and early days when Normans fought to hold the coast of Calvados and the granite slopes of Cotentin, of the Hundred Years’ War and the Maid who had died at Rouen. It was not music for the ear alone, it went far deeper. It made the audience want to sing and laugh and weep, and all at the same time.

When the voice of the violin ceased to throb and hum and began instead to skip with the airs of less rugged days, D’Iberville felt at liberty to begin an explanation. “I heard him last night,” he said to those around him. “He was singing in a waterside tavern and I knew at once that he was an artist. He gave us ‘La Nourrice du Roi’ with such supreme sweetness and taste that I knew I must bring him with me today. But when he joined us this morning he was in such a stupor that he wouldn’t speak, let alone sing for us as we paddled up the river. I began to fear that the impulse on which I had acted had been a wrong one.”

He now had so much of the attention of the company that the minstrel lowered his instrument and said, “You’ve heard me play, now give heed to the words of a great man.”

“I was very much disturbed,” went on D’Iberville. “I am a man of impulse, as many of you know. When I obey that first inner voice which tells me what to do everything comes out right. When I am facing the enemy and the voice says to me, ‘Go in, go in, go in!’ I attack with all the force I can muster without waiting for a second thought. When the voice says, ‘Easy, my friend, they are too strong, you must make them come to you,’ I know I should depend on guile and not on force. And so, when this stranger, who must sing sweetly enough to fill two bellies, his own and his dog’s, refused to sing at all, I was afraid that perhaps that inner voice had lost the knack of truth.” He indulged in a confident smile. “But now you have heard this friend of a few hours and I’m sure you agree it was right to bring so fine a singer to join in our celebration today. He has sung to us of the past so that we will continue resolute in what we must do in the future. I’m placing a silver coin in my hat and placing the hat on the ground. Any who so desire may now step forward and see that my coin does not lack for company.”

The minstrel’s face puckered up in a wry smile. “Music should be a free gift to all who care to pause and listen,” he said. “But Mother Nature was shortsighted enough to supply musicians with bellies which have to be filled. I shall be happy to accept, on behalf of myself and my friend, William Longsword, any contributions you may care to make.”

After dinner D’Iberville withdrew into the château in company with Charles and Joseph de Mariat. Some of the company stretched out and went to sleep, others sat about in groups and indulged in talk made desultory by the heat and the abundance of the wine and food. Finding himself at a loose end, Philippe sought out his friend the baker. Twelve-and-One-More was again making bread at the outside oven against the evening needs, and looking hotter and redder of face than before.

“St. Honorious!” he said to Philippe, wiping his brow on a huge forearm. “What eaters people are when it’s not their own food they’re cramming down their gullets. I’ve performed a miracle today, my small friend, a miracle of loaves and soups and beef and rissoles.”

Philippe seated himself with crossed legs in front of the oven, hoping that the cook had no knowledge of his own share in the consumption of the food. It seemed to him wise to find another topic for conversation.

“I’ve often wondered, M’sieur Twelve-and-One-More, if you who are so large and strong are afraid of Indians like everyone else.”

The cook paused in his labors. “I’ve never had any fear of them,” he declared. “To me they’re no better than wolves which find courage by running in packs. They shout to get up their courage and they stink in their war paint like dead fish cast up on a beach.” He began to rake at the coals under the oven. “They nearly had me once. There were three of us, cutting logs off St. Lambert’s Shore, and before we knew it the yelping devils were on us. Later we figured it out that there had been a dozen of them. I got my hands on two and I picked them up and knocked their heads together. They dropped like logs and I thought it certain their skulls had been cracked. The other savages thought so too and they didn’t seem to have much liking for that kind of fighting. At any rate they stopped their cass-cass-casseeing and vanished into the woods.... No, my small friend, I can say truthfully that I’ve never lost a moment’s sleep through fear of Indians.”

“And were the two Indians dead, m’sieur?”

“No. They came to their senses soon after. We sent them to Quebec as prisoners.”

“And what happened to them then?”

“The old comte ordered them to be roasted alive as a lesson to the torturing dogs that Frenchmen were to be left alone. I heard it said later that neither one of them let out as much as a whisper when the flames began to lick at their red hides.”

“You must be the strongest man that ever lived,” said the boy, looking admiringly at the structure of muscle and bone employed in the prosaic task of raking the fire. “You must be stronger even than M’sieur Dollier de Casson.”

The cook straightened up. “It’s said in the Holy Word that Samson was the strongest man,” he admitted unwillingly. “It’s wicked to dispute the Bible. But sometimes I think about this Samson—and I wonder.”

“There was also Goliath,” said the boy.

“Goliath!” the cook spoke the name in a tone of the deepest scorn. “I think very little of that one. If I had been the one to go out and meet him it would have been Goliath who needed the slingshot.”

The boy seemed in complete agreement with this. He nodded energetically and said, “It would take a very big weapon to kill you, M’sieur Twelve-and-One-More.”

“I think it would take a very big weapon. When one is as large as I am the layers of muscle are deep and hard. It might even be that it would take a cannon ball to kill me.”

The boy was still casting back into his knowledge of the great giants of the past. “Then there was Og, the King of Bashan, who slept on an iron bed nine cubits long—” he began.

A shout sounded from above them. Philippe knew that it had come from one of the tower guards. Instinctively he threw himself on the ground.

“Indians!” cried the guard, beating excitedly on a piece of pipe. “On the Chambly Road!”

Philippe raised his head fearfully and glanced in the direction of the Chambly Road. A single naked figure had bounded out from the trees and was bending a bow. As soon as the arrow had been discharged the redskin turned and vanished into the forest. A second warning was sounded from the tower but it was doubtful if anyone heard it in the general panic. The boy, who had crept under the cover of the oven, could hear wild screams and much hasty scuffling as the people on the common rushed for the safety of the castle walls. He kept his head down, however, even when the cook joined in the scramble and called to him in treble urgency to follow.

Through the boy’s mind the thought kept running, “They’ll burn us at the stake if they catch us!” His teeth began to chatter. He said to himself, “I’ll count ten and then it will be safe to get up and run.” It was impossible to concentrate on counting, however. Remembering that it was a favorite Iroquois trick to tear out the fingernails of their victims first, he pressed his hands against his sides as though determined to hide them. Then he heard the voice of D’Iberville and this had a steadying effect on him. He raised himself on hands and knees, thinking, “M’sieur Pierre is here so there can be no danger.”

D’Iberville came out slowly from the castle gates, looking about him at the frightened people. He had not paused to loosen his sword in its scabbard or to possess himself of a pistol. Philippe saw that the greatest of the Le Moynes was not at all alarmed but that he was very angry.

The voice of the conqueror of Newfoundland could be heard distinctly above the clamor. “Come! What’s the meaning of all this running and bleating? Great St. Nicolas! Have you taken leave of your senses? This isn’t an attack in force. There’s no reason for fear.” He held a hand above his eyes and stared intently down the Chambly Road. Turning about with an impatient shake of the head, he demanded: “Have you ever known the Iroquois to strike in broad daylight? Do they wait until we’re gathered in force before attacking us? Would they send out a single warrior to give us warning like a herald in the old days? No, my friends, they would have sprung at us like wild beasts from the woods all around before we suspected them of being within a hundred miles of us!” He began to laugh in a high-pitched, scornful tone. “This warrior, who has shot his little arrow our way and vanished, was thumbing his nose at us. That’s all!”

Philippe got quickly and shamefacedly to his feet. He saw now that all the Le Moyne brothers had followed D’Iberville out from the castle and they were treating the matter as a joke. He heard Gabriel saying in a disappointed voice, “There won’t be any fighting today. And I had my mind set on getting some Indian hair for my belt!”

The boy said to himself, “I’ve acted like a coward! I, who wanted to be a Le Moyne!” He looked about him to see where the arrow had gone, supposing it had struck against the walls or had found its mark in the ground. Then, with a sudden sick feeling, he came to a stop.

The arrow had found its mark but not against the walls or in the ground. An inert body lay face down on the path between the oven and the castle gate. The feathers were sticking straight up from between the shoulder blades of the victim.

“God and St. Joseph have mercy on him!” exclaimed D’Iberville, who had caught sight of the body at the same time. He crossed himself hurriedly. “It’s Twelve-and-One-More! My poor old friend!”

The arrow looked small in that huge expanse of back and certainly not capable of causing serious hurt. But Twelve-and-One-More had been wrong when he boasted to Philippe that it would take a very big weapon to bring him to grief. The Iroquois arrow had sufficed. Even to the tear-blurred eyes of the boy it was clear that the largest man and best cook in New France was dead.