Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 18

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ather Millet, a retired Indian missionary who was living out the few remaining years of his life ministering to the spiritual needs of the little community, had watched the celebration during the day with a tolerant eye and had said nothing, even when a few men drank too much wine and became a little noisy. But when supper was over and there was talk of dancing on the green, he decided to intervene.

“There will be no dancing, my children,” he declared in the hearing of all. “Must I remind you that girls are permitted to dance only with each other and in their own homes, with their mothers present?”

“But, Father, this is a special occasion,” protested Handsome Hyacinth Dessain, the only bachelor on the seigneurie. Hyacinth was a fine dancer and did not want to lose such an excellent chance to display his skill.

“It’s not special enough, my son, for us to allow the good old laws to be broken. And have you forgotten that we’ve suffered a loss this day?” Father Millet looked about at the disappointed faces. “Most sins are committed in the hours of darkness. I’ve come to look upon them, as our ancestors did, as belonging to the devil.” Certainly the old man had seen enough deviltry perpetrated after dark in the Indian encampments where he had spent his life. “There’s another of the good old laws which has fallen into disuse. Women must be in their homes by nine o’clock. It will be observed this night, my children. And as they cannot return through the woods alone, their husbands and fathers must accompany them.”

A few voices were raised in dissent. The old laws, they pointed out, had not been applied in so many years that they had ceased to be laws. Even in Montreal, where the Sulpicians were inclined to be severe, people were allowed to sit as long as they pleased on the benches built at the front doors. Surely a stifling hot night was no time to revive a long forgotten regulation!

The old priest fingered the crucifix about his neck and said nothing more. There was no mistaking the message of his eyes, however, and gradually one family after another good-naturedly collected itself and moved off for home along the forest paths. The women carried lanterns and the men had their guns primed and loaded. By nine o’clock everyone had gone.

This lesson had such a profound effect that on the second evening all the women in the château had retired to their own quarters before the hour struck. A small group of men, however, had gathered outside the walls, where they hoped to have the advantage of any breeze. Inevitably they fell to discussing the death of their comrade.

“It’s as I say,” declared Sooty-Arms, the smith. “Twelve-and-One-More told us many times how he wanted things to be. He said it to me, he said it to you, he said it to everyone here. His father was a big man—though not to be mentioned in the same breath with our poor friend—and he was buried back in Normandy in a coffin of the hardest wood, bound with strips of iron. Twelve-and-One-More didn’t want it said he’d failed to keep up family standards. If you ask the seigneur, you’ll find he has funds for the purpose, which were paid in at so much a month. It was M’sieur Charles who gave the order to Girard for the coffin.”

“That’s all very well, my friend,” protested the miller, “but haven’t you heard what Old Kirkinhead says, that it will take another full day to make such a coffin? Have you given a thought to this heat? Twelve-and-One-More wanted a fine coffin, granted; but he also wanted to look his best. He was as vain as a peacock.”

“Father Millet has set the time for five o’clock tomorrow,” said the smith. “Why talk about it, then? The matter is settled.” After making these remarks, however, Sooty-Arms experienced a change of opinion. He suddenly grinned and slapped one callused fist against the other. “We will tell no one,” he declared, looking about him cautiously. “Not Father Millet, not M’sieur Charles, not—not Tante Seulette above all. We will take Twelve-and-One-More to the glacière. It’s unfortunate that he must be lugged around like a quarter of beef but of this I’m sure: he would agree if he could speak to us. He would want to look right for his own funeral.”

The others agreed at once and no time was lost in putting the plan into operation. The body was carried out from the chapel on a stretcher improvised from three pike handles and a discarded mattress, six of the men being needed to lift it. The glacière was not, strictly speaking, an icehouse at all but a well-shaded spot about two hundred yards from the château where the summer’s supply of ice was kept under a thick covering of sawdust. It took such a long spell of tugging and hauling to raise the body of the dead man to a position on top of the pile that all the participants were breathless when they finally succeeded. They grouped themselves around the base and rested for several moments without a word being said.

Sooty-Arms glanced at the body finally and, feeling reassured, nodded his head. “It’s as though he was lying in State,” he said in a whisper. “I remember once in Paris when—” He checked himself abruptly and did not continue with what he had intended to tell.

The others seemed accustomed to his reticences. After a moment the miller said: “What a pity it is! What a loss to Longueuil! In my opinion Twelve-and-One-More was better known than any of the Le Moynes—except, of course, M’sieur Pierre.”

Sooty-Arms took it on himself to reply. “And a man with two heads would be more talked about than the Comte de Frontenac.” He glanced about him. “Who’s to stand watch?”

They had carried a single torch with them and it was now stuck in the notch of a tree. The light thus supplied was too small to make clear the hesitation which visited each face when this point was raised. For several moments nothing was said and then a voice spoke up. “Let me stay and watch.”

The smith sat up straighter and looked about him. The voice, he perceived, belonged to a boy who had followed them from the château and was standing at one side. After a moment’s scrutiny he recognized him. “You’re Old Kirkinhead’s boy,” he said. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“My master sent me with a message for M’sieur Charles.”

“And why do you want to stand watch?”

“He was my friend,” said Philippe. “I think he would like it if I stayed.”

The smith said brusquely, “And in half an hour you would come back squalling and say you were afraid to stay.”

There was a pause and then Philippe said: “I would be afraid. Yes, m’sieur. But I wouldn’t come running back because of it.”

“I also was a friend of Twelve-and-One-More,” said the smith. “Can I allow this boy to do more than I’m willing to in the name of friendship? It shall be this way, Philippe. We’ll stand watch together, you and I, and if we become frightened of noises in the dark or the fear that Indians are still about, we’ll sit close together and take comfort in each other’s company.”

The rest were only too glad to have matters settled in this way. Guns were left with the two volunteers, the torch was extinguished, and the party quietly withdrew to the shelter of the château. For the smith and the boy the long vigil began.