CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WHICH DE SANCERRE’S ISLAND IS BESIEGED
“Pardieu, Monsieur le Comte, I’ll ne’er forget the scene!” remarked Jacques Barbier, puffing his pipe and lazily watching the smoke as the evening breeze tore it into shreds. Nearly a month had passed since the coureur de bois, with a wild turkey, had helped to make a single shot from de Sancerre’s musket worth its expenditure of powder and ball. During that period, Jacques Barbier, obedient, docile, knowing every secret of the woods and waters, had been a source of never-ending comfort to the French count. With a tactfulness which he would have been incompetent to employ a year before this crisis, de Sancerre had attached the Canadian youth to his fortunes without arousing the restless, reckless spirit of revolt which made a coureur de bois, in those wild times, an unreliable ally and a mutinous subordinate.
There were, however, other things besides de Sancerre’s diplomacy which had tended to keep Jacques Barbier contented with his lot for the time being. The necessity for obtaining food without betraying their hiding-place to savage men, hot upon their trail, had taxed the Canadian’s ingenuity and had aroused his pride as a woodsman. He had listened with close attention to de Sancerre’s tale, and had agreed with Doña Julia that the sun-worshippers would not abandon the quest of their goddess as long as their resources for her pursuit held out. By Barbier’s advice and assistance, de Sancerre had erected two small huts upon an insignificant island in the western branch of the great river’s mouth, and here they had passed several weeks in peace and plenty, weeks which had restored brilliancy to Doña Julia’s eyes and color to her cheeks and lips, while they had revived her champion’s spirits and had brought back mincing lightness to his step and gayety to his ready smile.
Their retreat had not been invaded by the degenerate savages along the river-banks. Now and then they would catch a glimpse upon the river of a distant canoe in which copper-colored sportsmen were attempting to lure the ugly catfish from the muddy waters of the turgid stream, and once, far to the northward, they observed a war-canoe putting out from the eastern shore and urged up-stream by paddles which glistened in the sunlight.
Once in awhile, Jacques Barbier would return from the forest, laden with game-birds, to tell a highly-colored story of redmen whose keen eyes he had avoided through the potency of his marvellous woodcraft. But the month of June, known to the sun-worshippers as the moon of watermelons, had reached a ripe age, and the island’s refugees found themselves well-housed, well-fed, and free, as far as they could observe, from the machinations of cruel foes. Sanguine by temperament and easily influenced by his environment, de Sancerre had put himself into opposition to the belief, held by Doña Julia and Jacques Barbier, that the sun-priests and their tools would descend to the gulf, by land or water, in search of Coyocop. He had eliminated from his mind the thought of peril at his back and had turned his face toward the sea, thinking only of succor from a passing ship.
It was with the hope that European sailors would come to them from the gulf that de Sancerre had fastened a piece of white canvas, which he had found among the débris of de la Salle’s encampment, to the top of the King’s Column. From where he sat at twilight in front of the rude hut occupied by Jacques Barbier and himself, de Sancerre could look across the narrow streak of water between his island and the main-land and see his signal of distress flapping lazily in the evening breeze. Now and then the bright, restless eyes of the coureur de bois would rest protestingly upon the white flag. To his mind, the rag was more likely to bring upon them enemies from the woods than friends from the lonely sea. Jacques Barbier hated the ocean with an intensity only equalled by the fervor of his love for the forest wilds.
On the evening to which reference is now made, the coureur de bois had grown unwontedly loquacious, as he smoked his evening pipe, and glanced alternately at Doña Julia and de Sancerre, as, hand clasped in hand, they listened to the usually taciturn Canadian’s account of the ceremonies attending the erection of the King’s Column and the Cross of Christ.
“Pardieu, Monsieur le Comte, I’ll ne’er forget the scene! We, that is your countrymen and mine, were mustered under arms, while behind us stood the Mohicans and Abenakis, with the squaws and pappooses whom they had brought with them to make trouble for us all. Père Membré, in full canonicals, looking like a saint just come to earth from Paradise, intoned a Latin chant. Then we all raised our voices and sang a hymn:
“‘The banners of Heaven’s King advance,
The mystery of the Cross shines forth.’
The Mohicans and Abenakis grunted with excitement and the pappooses yelled. ‘Vive le Roi!’ we shouted, to drown their clatter, and then your captain—may the devil fly away with his surly tongue!—raised his voice and claimed for the King of France and Navarre possession of ‘this country of Louisiana’—with the right to put a tax upon every peltry which we poor trappers take. Gar, it is no wonder, Monsieur le Comte, that we who risk our lives within the woods should feel small reverence for a king so far away, whose harsh enactments have made us outlaws in the land where we were born. Mayhap, monsieur, you have good cause to love the King of France! In that, you differ from Jacques Barbier.”
Doña Julia felt de Sancerre’s hand grow cold in hers and heard him mutter something beneath his breath, the burden of which she did not catch. The truth was that the random shot of the coureur du bois had touched the French count in a sensitive spot. What better reason had he for loyalty to the Tyrant of Versailles than this vagabond of the woods, who, even in the most remote corners of a trackless wilderness, still felt the sinister influence of a selfish despotism exercising a wide-spread cruelty begotten of egotism and bigotry? Had not de Sancerre known the fickleness of royal smiles and frowns, the ingratitude of a monarch who, at the instigation of a priesthood, could sacrifice a brave and loyal subject without granting him a chance to speak a word in his own defense?
“In good sooth,” murmured de Sancerre to himself, “his tongue has cut me deep! What cause have I to love the King of France? I knelt in homage at his column there, but methinks my knee and not my heart paid tribute to le Grand Monarque! Somehow, this mighty wilderness makes rebels of us all! Ma foi, Jacques Barbier,” he cried aloud, “what is it that you see?”
The coureur de bois had sprung to his feet and was sweeping the shore of the main-land with a quick, piercing glance which cut through the darkness which the moon, soon to show itself in the east, had not yet overcome.
“Request the Princess”—the title by which Jacques Barbier designated Doña Julia de Aquilar—“request the Princess, Monsieur le Comte, to retire to her hut for the night! There are men stirring upon the further bank who are neither Quinipissas nor Tangibaos. I fear, monsieur, that you have underrated the persistence of your foes who make the sun their god. Unless I never knew the woods, there are stalwart strangers in the bushes over there. Go you, monsieur, and watch the river, while I keep an eye upon this bank. Gar, ’twill be a pretty fight, Monsieur le Comte! Your hand is steady? Bien! The moon will soon be up. Keep close to earth when you have reached the river!”
“Ma foi, Jacques Barbier, I like the way you talk!” whispered de Sancerre. “But, tell me, we’re short of bullets, are we not?”
“Humph!” grunted the Canadian, gruffly. “We’ve none to waste upon the waters or the trees, Monsieur le Comte! Bear that in mind.”
“Tell me, señor,” exclaimed Doña Julia, to whom Jacques Barbier’s French patois was an unmeaning jumble of more or less unrecognizable words when he spoke rapidly: “Tell me, señor, has he seen the sun-priests on yonder shore?” Her hand was like a piece of ice in his clasp, as de Sancerre led the girl toward the hut.
“I hardly know, ma chère,” answered her lover, frankly. “There are men stirring upon the bank, but I cannot believe that they are from the City of the Sun. But if they are, my sweetheart, there are those among them who will never look upon their mud-baked homes again! ’Tis strange how a fat larder restores the fighting spirit to a man. A month ago my stomach loathed a battle. At that time, all that it wanted was a bird. To-night, if you were far away, señora, I’d take rare pleasure in doing moon-tricks when the moon is full. And so adieu, my sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing his lips to hers ere she bent down to enter her rude cabin. “When you hear my musket speak, you’ll know an enemy of yours has need of prayer.”
It was not long after this that de Sancerre made good his boast, although Jacques Barbier began the battle of the night. The French count had dragged his musket and his crouching body through the long grass toward the eastern shore of the small island, and had taken one sweeping glance at the river, over which at that instant the risen moon had thrown a flood of silvery light, when behind him he heard the roar of the Canadian’s deadly gun. But de Sancerre had no time to think of his faithful ally at that critical moment. Almost upon a line with the island, and coming straight toward it, two heavily manned war-canoes of the sun-worshipers rose and fell upon the moon-kissed flood. The imminence of his peril acted upon de Sancerre like a draught of rich, old wine.
“What reckless fools these be!” he exclaimed, taking careful aim at the nearest canoe, now within a hundred yards of his grass-grown shooting-box. “Be faithful, ma petite! The time has come again!”
The thunder of de Sancerre’s gun chased the echoes from the musket of the coureur de bois across the glimmering flood.
“Ma foi!” muttered de Sancerre. “Saint Maturin is wide awake to-night! That bullet did its work.”
Reloading his musket with all possible speed, the Frenchman, with a grim smile upon his face, drew a bead upon the second canoe, which had now forged ahead of the boat-load upon which de Sancerre’s fatal shot had exercised a demoralizing effect. Meanwhile, Jacques Barbier’s gun had spoken twice, for he had learned to reload his weapon with a celerity only acquired after years of practice.
“Steady, now, ma petite,” muttered de Sancerre. “You have a record to maintain. Adieu, monsieur!”
A paddle and its dusky wielder fell into the black-and-white flood, and a moment later the two canoes had retreated to mid-stream.
“Gar, you shoot well, Monsieur le Comte!” exclaimed Jacques Barbier, creeping to de Sancerre’s side. “If our bullets could have children, we could hold this island for a year! There is no danger from the forest for a time; and, I think, those boats will not come near us for an hour at least. These be the demons from your City of the Sun?”
“There is no doubt about it!” exclaimed de Sancerre. “It must amaze them to meet so much moon-magic, although the moon is full. What think you, Jacques, will be their next attempt?”
“They’ll hold aloof, Monsieur le Comte, until their courage rises or a cloud obstructs the moon. ’Tis best, I think, that we patrol our fort. You pace the island to the right. I’ll meet you half-way round, and then return. Unless our bullets fly away too fast there is no danger—for this night at least.”
“Think you, Jacques Barbier, they saw the maiden—Coyocop?”
“Gar, ’tis certain, is it not? Their bold attack by boat and shore was not the outcome of a clumsy chance. They knew that she was here, and thought that you could not defend the island on both sides. But this is not the time for talk, monsieur. Marchons!”
An hour passed by, and the island’s sentinels could find neither upon land nor stream sure proof that the sun-worshipers meditated an immediate renewal of their attack.
“Tell me, señora,” cried de Sancerre, abandoning his patrol for a time to have speech with Doña Julia—“tell me what it means! They found two guns awaiting them instead of one. But they have come in force by wood and stream. They have no skill in war, if this is all their fight.”
“Be patient, señor, they will come again,” remarked the Spanish maiden, unconsciously suggesting by her words the influence which de Sancerre’s mind held over hers. “They have concealed themselves, to talk of many things which worry them.”
“Par exemple?” exclaimed de Sancerre, thrusting his hand through the opening to her hut, to clasp hers.
“They know that I am here.”
“You feel sure of that?”
“Yes. But they will not return to-night—for all night long the moon will shine.”
“Pardieu, I do not follow you, señora.”
“’Tis clear to me,” said the girl, firmly. “Somehow, I seem to read their minds, as if the saints were speaking to my soul. They fear that your white witchery, when the moon is full, is more fatal than they had dreamed. They will await the rising of their god, the sun, before they try to capture me again. Be convinced of this: they will attack you, señor, just at dawn. I know their hearts and habits well enough to feel assured that what I say is true. They are not cowards, but they dread the magic of your deadly guns.”
“But listen, señora. I fought them in the sunlight once before. They know that ma petite can kill by day,” argued de Sancerre, hoping against hope that, for the sake of their scanty store of bullets, the girl was right.
“Believe me, señor, that I read their evil minds. They think their god, the sun, more powerful at dawn than later in the day. The Great Spirit, so the sun-priests say, is not unlike a man, and takes a long siesta at high noon. They have attacked you now at noon and in the night. They will not tempt your wizard gun again until their shining god is wide awake.”
“Ma foi, ma chère, your woman’s wit has wrought a miracle, I think!” exclaimed de Sancerre. “I owe an altar somewhere far from hence, if what you say is true. And so I’ll leave you, sweetheart, for a time. I must have speech with Barbier.”
“Welcome, monsieur,” cried the coureur de bois, as the Count approached him from behind. “I’ve watched the shore until my eyes are hot, and cannot see a sign of living thing. The river and the woods suggest that we were scared by ghosts.”
“Nay, Jacques, you’ll find our foes were made of flesh and blood! They will return in force at dawn!” exclaimed de Sancerre, throwing himself upon the long grass at Barbier’s side.
The coureur de bois glanced at the ragged, white-faced patrician at his side with a satirical gleam in his restless eyes.
“You’ve learned your woodcraft with great celerity, Monsieur le Comte,” he exclaimed, sarcastically. “Mayhap the saints have told you what would come to us.”
De Sancerre smiled coldly. “’Tis neither woodcraft nor the saints to whom I owe my thanks, Jacques Barbier,” he remarked, quietly. “I am a seer and prophet through the goddess Coyocop. And now, young man, I’ll let you watch awhile, and get a wink of sleep. I’ll need a steady hand at dawn. Arouse me in an hour, and I will take my turn at watching peaceful scenes. Good-night, Jacques Barbier. Bear this in mind. We’ll have to fight an army when the sun comes up.”
A moment later de Sancerre lay out-stretched beneath the moon in dreamless sleep, while the coureur de bois, pacing restlessly the little island, nursed his wounded pride, and wondered if the morning would teach him something new.