Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 8

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During the last few minutes of his visit with the woman who lived near the wall, Charles le Moyne had been conscious of a hubbub rising from the street below. As he emerged into the open air he perceived that the noise came from the intersection with the Rue Notre Dame. A curious specimen of a man was pacing up and down in front of the general trading store which stood there and indulging in a steady stream of abuse while a constantly increasing group of spectators watched the proceedings from a safe distance.

The chief actor in the scene was, obviously, a member of that colorful band of traders known as the coureurs de bois. They were familiar figures on the streets of Montreal but it was unusual to encounter one this late in the summer. The King’s Fair had been held weeks before. It had been a great success. There had been nearly five hundred canoes in the flotilla which had left Green Bay and swept down the Ottawa River, all of them packed with skins, beaver for the most part but also plenty of otter and mink and the hides of the moose. With the canoes had come hundreds of Indians and, of course, all the French woodsmen. The latter had led the flotilla, making the waters and the woods resound with their songs of King Castor (Beaver) I. Merchants had come to Montreal from all parts of the colony and had set up their booths along the palisades; and for ten days there had been trading and bargaining (and much drinking of brandy and fighting and wenching) until all the furs had changed hands.

Long before this the canoes had started back up the Ottawa and the woodsmen had gone with them. This one laggard was an unusually tall fellow with an unkempt shock of red hair above a hook-nosed, sickle-mouthed face. The oddity of his appearance was added to by the incongruity of his attire. Naked from the waist up, he nevertheless wore a felt hat with a bedraggled plume hanging from it, and his leggings, though worn and patched, had been made of fine imported cloth. A smoked eel was tied around his neck, possibly as an emergency supply of food.

This curious individual was in a great rage. He was prancing about and doing ludicrous dance steps which generally ended in abrupt leaps into the air with a cracking of heels before landing. Each time he did this he would let out a screech of laughter. “Come up, come up, town rats!” he would cry. “Come a little closer, you flyblown scum of the streets, and let me kick your rabbit heads right off your shoulders!”

His anger, however, was directed at the proprietors of the trading store, who had not yet met his terms. He kept shouting that they wanted to rob him and that he would stay where he was, allowing no one to enter the store or even pass it until justice had been done him. The owners did not seem much disturbed. One of them sat in the window of the establishment and kept a supercilious eye on him as he indulged in his tirades—and a hand on the muzzle of a gun resting across the sill.

“Liars! Thieves!” the angry woodsman was shouting. “You skunks, masquerading in human guise! You crawling batfowlers! Cheats! Assassins. Didn’t I break all records by bringing fifty bales of fur in one canoe, I, André Beaufils? And you, you greasy grice, trying to prig me down on the fair price we agreed to first!”

A very young man turned into the street at the same time as the Seigneur of Longueuil arrived on the scene. He was walking with lowered head and did not become aware of what was going on until he had made his way through the ranks of the delighted spectators and had invaded the forbidden territory in front of the store. He stopped only when an infuriated hail assailed his ears. He looked up then and frowned at the prancing figure of the woodsman.

“Keep away from me!” roared the latter. “I, André Beaufils, have been cheated. No one passes until these Judases, snuffling over their pieces of silver, pay me what’s my due. And that means everyone from old Onontio himself to stinking town rabble like these frightened little penwipers! And it includes you, Jean-Baptiste le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, and make no mistake about that!”

The young man, who was of slender build and had a rather studious air about him, looked startled at this outburst but at the same time somewhat amused.

“So! You are André Beaufils,” he said. “I’ve heard a great deal about André Beaufils—and none of it pleasant. Now what’s this you’re saying? That you won’t allow anyone to pass? But that’s absurd. You see, André Beaufils, I’ve a visit to make farther up this Street and so it’s necessary for me to pass—and that without any delay.”

The woodsman drew back his right leg. “Take one step more, my fancy gentleman!” he bellowed. “And I, André Beaufils, who cares nothing for man, God, or devil, will drill a hole through your skull with this toe of mine!”

Charles le Moyne found it hard to resist the impulse to interfere before his brother could meet with any injury but he held back, realizing that the situation had reached a stage where Jean-Baptiste must see it through himself. He darted an anxious look at the boy and was relieved to find him quite cool.

The Sieur de Bienville paused a moment and thoughtfully rubbed a hand along his nose. Then he said: “There are only twenty-five licenses issued to fur traders. What’s the number of yours, André Beaufils?”

The woodsman checked himself on the point of another outburst. His mouth dropped open.

“It’s a matter of very great difficulty and unpleasantness when anyone is caught trading without a license. I’ve heard the governor intends to revive the old laws and have those who break them branded and then sent to the galleys in France. Of course he may not go as far as that. I noticed that all three who were caught and fined during the fair were noisy fellows and always making trouble. The quiet ones without licenses weren’t disturbed.” He stared at the woodsman intently. “It might be quite awkward for you if it was found you hadn’t a license.”

He began to walk past the now silent trader, moving his feet slowly and casually. Beaufils stared at him as though unwilling to let this defiance go unpunished. The muscles of his right leg quivered and the spectators held their breaths, expecting him to launch one of his terrific, leaping kicks. But he made no move.

“By St. Joe!” he muttered. “Can I hurt this boy—a son of good old Charles le Moyne and a brother of my friend Pierre? No, no, that I can’t do!”

The youth said over his shoulder as he calmly passed the trader, “It would be wise if you were on your way by nightfall.”

Charles le Moyne stepped forward and dropped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “That was well done,” he whispered. “I was proud of the way you handled this fellow, Jean-Baptiste.”

The younger brother seemed disturbed as well as surprised at meeting the head of the family. He glanced up the street in the direction of the chemist’s shop and frowned uneasily. “I think perhaps, Charles,” he said, “you’ve been seeing Marie.”

“If you mean the young widow—yes, I’ve just left her.”

“I—I expected you would go to her.”

The seigneur turned toward him and was amazed to find that the boy’s face had gone white. “Jean-Baptiste! You shouldn’t take this so seriously!”

“I shouldn’t take it seriously! Charles, it’s the only thing that counts at all.”

“But, my boy, this young woman would never make you the right kind of wife. Surely you see that yourself.”

“I won’t listen to anything against her!” said Jean-Baptiste fiercely. He was breathing hard. “I’ve already told you that I love her. I’ve told you I intend to make her my wife!”

“All I meant to say, Jean-Baptiste, was that she isn’t happy in this country and that an unhappy woman never makes a good wife. She wants to return to France. Perhaps you already know that.”

The boy looked down at the ground. “She said she wanted to,” he stated in a low tone. “I didn’t believe her. I thought she was—saying it as a test of my devotion.” He lifted his eyes and regarded the head of the family with a belligerent air. “You’ve been making the most of it, Charles! You’ve been encouraging her to go back! You won’t be content until you’ve destroyed my chance for happiness!”

The older brother flushed unhappily. “I’ve always tried to be fair with you. Surely you’ve realized how fond I am of you and that what I do is in your interests. I’m not trying to destroy your chance for happiness, Jean-Baptiste, I’m trying to preserve it.” He paused for a moment and studied the unhappy face of the boy beside him. “I give you my solemn word that she mentioned her wishes without any suggestion or prompting from me.”

“Charles!” said Jean-Baptiste, swallowing hard. “Charles! I must know. I must know at once! Are you going to help her to go?”

The Seigneur of Longueuil nodded his head reluctantly. “I’m going to arrange for her return. I repeat, my boy, it’s at her own most earnest request. I know it will prove the best thing for all concerned.” The pallor of his brother’s face led him to add in a compassionate tone: “I know you are going to feel badly about it, my little Jean-Baptiste, but before long you’ll be glad. You’ll come to see that it wouldn’t have been wise to marry her.”

The boy cried in a despairing voice: “Now that you’ve done this to me, you must let me sail with Pierre! All that’s left to me now is the chance to die for my country!”

The sound of an angry shout from the corner caused the seigneur to look in that direction. The woodsman was starting another tirade and was waving his arms in the air. “I must attend to this noisy fool!” said Charles le Moyne impatiently. Then he noticed that his brother had turned his back and was walking away from him.

“Jean-Baptiste!” he called anxiously.

The boy paid no attention. He broke into a run which carried him past the angry woodsman and out of sight around the corner of the Rue Notre Dame.