Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 25

CHAPTER I

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ean-Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, shouted, “Détapez vos canons!” and heard a rush of feet as the gun crew hurried to obey the order.

Already the fids had been stripped off and the trunnions had been thoroughly greased with tallow. The Chevalier de Ligondez, who shared the command of the upper battery with De Bienville, was seeing that blankets and sheets were soaked in water and placed behind each gun for use in case the decks took fire. There were a hundred such details to be attended to in preparing for action.

De Bienville walked to the nearest porthole and stared out. There was a blazing sun and the three English ships, which were tacking to starboard in an effort to reach the roadstead before Fort Nelson, were now clearly to be seen. The first in line was a heavy frigate (five hundred tons, at least, he figured) which probably carried as many as fifty guns and looked most deadly forbidding. A strong wind was blowing across Hudson’s Bay but the three ships kept beautifully in line as they beat up against it. None of the strange things the French had met on the journey into this grim and almost landlocked sea—the high dark rampart of the straits, the drifting icebergs like tall islands afloat, the awesome play of lights in the skies at night, the silence, the desolation, the feeling that they had reached another world over which death brooded—none of this had affected him as much as the sight of these three hostile ships. The Pélican was alone, for the rest of the French squadron had been lost sight of in coming through the straits. It would be three to one and these were heavy odds, even with D’Iberville on the quarterdeck. Behind them was Fort Nelson with a garrison thirsting for the extermination of the French.

The Chevalier de Ligondez called over his shoulder as he hurried by, “How far off now?”

“In another half hour their guns will start to sing,” answered De Bienville. He felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach and it was some consolation that his brother officer was as white as chalk in spite of his activity. In a tone of reluctant admiration he added: “They handle well. It’s the Hampshire in the lead. A tough nut to crack.”

De Ligondez walked to the water cask, into which brandy had been poured (not to bolster up courage but to cut the saltiness of the water and prevent the men from getting colic), and helped himself to a drink. His hand shook and some of the water spilled on the binding strake at his feet.

“But we’ll crack that nut, my bold Jean-Baptiste,” he said. He was only sixteen and had never needed to shave, and it was no wonder that he found it hard to put the desired fullness and authority into his voice.

A few moments later the commander came striding down the second pont on a final round of inspection. The blue of the D’Iberville eye had turned to cold fire. He had dressed himself as for a court reception, with lace at his neck and wrists and a heavy gold chain hanging low on his waistcoat.

“Well, my children!” he called in his battle voice, which was a tone higher than normal. “The English are coming in. We may have to board them but I’m hoping that a dose of this medicine”—he tapped a finger on the nearest gun—“will prove a complete cure. The order, when it comes, will be Pointez à couler bas! See that you rake them from stem to stern. I’ve confidence in your gunnery, my children.” He looked up and down the gun deck, his eyes flashing. “In another hour the surface of Mort Bay must be three inches deep with roast beef and boiled potatoes.”

A roar of laughter went up from the men working over their guns. De Bienville saw with a tug of pride that his brother’s presence had acted already as a tonic. It was always the way; a single glimpse of him, the sound of his voice, the daring and humor in what he said, and the most timid rabbit of a man was ready to charge singlehanded at the enemy.

“A word with you, Sieur de Bienville,” said D’Iberville in his brother’s ear a few moments later.

They stepped behind the dripping canvas which had been rigged up in front of the budge barrels of gunpowder to ward off sparks. The commander looked his young brother over and then clapped him commendingly on the back. “This will be your first smell of powder, Jean-Baptiste,” he said. “You look cool enough. But then you’re a Le Moyne, and what else would be expected of a son of Old M’sieur Charles? I know you’ll acquit yourself well today and my only worry is whether you’ll try too hard. Do you remember your promise to Charles?”

“Yes, Pierre—I mean, my captain.”

“I want you to do your duty to the fullest but I don’t want to find it necessary to carry back word of another tragedy like the death of my brave Louis.” His teeth bared as he thought of the passing of his favorite brother in these same unfriendly and bitter waters some six years before. “You must be careful not to go out of your way to meet danger. That’s all. Go back to your post—and may the kind Father”—he crossed himself—“and all the saints in paradise look down on you the next few hours, my little Jean-Baptiste!”

De Bienville hesitated and then said, “I want to ask a question, my captain.” He looked shamefaced and was careful to keep his eyes lowered. “I’ve tried to ask you this a hundred times but—but somehow I’ve never been able to get it out. And now if I don’t ask you, I may never have the chance again.”

“Be quick about it then.” It was plain that D’Iberville’s mind had gone on to more important things.

“You knew what happened before we sailed, about my falling in love. She, Madame Halay, was on the Ferrand when it sailed from Quebec, a day before us. I saw her on deck and Monsieur de Mariat was beside her. It seemed to me she was in very good spirits. She seemed to laugh a great deal and there’s no denying she was dressed with care. Did you hear it said around the town that she and De Mariat had been together a great deal in Quebec? I was told everyone was talking about it.”

“I heard some of the talk.” D’Iberville dropped a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder. “They were about together and De Mariat was behaving like a rampaging old goat. Jean-Baptiste, you must accept a word of advice. Put your little Madame Halay out of your mind. She’s a pretty creature but she’s gone out of your life and you can count it good luck that she has.” His feet seemed to be drawing him away but he compelled himself to remain long enough to impart a further piece of advice. “Very soon now, my brother, you’ll be seeing Paris and other parts of the great world through a man’s eyes. And then, God willing it not otherwise, you’ll go with me to the warm seas of the south. This you’ll discover for yourself: that the world is full of beautiful women, each one more willing and lovely than the last. There are so many of them that a man’s fancy can stray from one to another like a fly over a basket of ripe fruit. You’ll forget your little widow in shorter time than it’s going to take me to clean the English out of Mort Bay.”

De Bienville knew there was sound sense in what his brother had said but he was certain, nevertheless, that he would never forget Marie. The world might be full of enticing women but for him the one memory would never fade. He walked the length of the gun deck with this thought in mind but it was only a partial absorption, for he was able to give the battery a close and expert scrutiny at the same time.

“The captain may order swivels mounted on the rail of the weather deck,” said De Ligondez when they next met. “I wish he’d put me in command up there, because then I would see everything. Here we’ll fight in a smother of stife and all we’ll know will be what they shout down the scuttle to us.”

De Bienville answered with fitting scorn. “This battery will win the battle for us. Not a few paltry popguns, spitting into the shrouds!”

They were almost of a height and, standing face to face, they appeared resolute and alert in spite of their youth. The balance of their conversation, however, would have destroyed that impression.

“Jean-Baptiste,” whispered De Ligondez, “I hope I’m not going to be sick at my stomach. I’m starting to feel strange already. They say men often vomit when the fighting starts.”

“The captain warned me about that. He said I should draw in my belt tight to hold the muscles in. He said it didn’t matter—that many brave men had been taken sick in battle.”

“But,” with a doubtful shake of the head, “what would the men think? I don’t want to look like a puking coward to them.”