It was a sad duty that Bastienne and Marguerite had to perform when they
made Marie's poor broken body ready for burial. And while they toiled
with loving hands within the hut, Claude worked as best he could to
prepare a rude coffin from some of the planks which had remained after
the building of their dwelling. Each blow of his hammer went to the
hearts of the women, from whom this sad calamity seemed to have taken
the last ray of hope.
By the evening of the day which followed her death all was ready, and
Claude, with an aching heart, dug a grave in the level, grassy sod, just
back of the cliff from which she had fallen. All completed, he returned
to the hut, and the three watched silently by their dead till morning
broke upon them. Shivering in body and mind, they made ready to carry
her remains to their island grave, while the wild sea-birds, which flew
screaming in the face of the coming storm, seemed, to their saddened
hearts, to wail of human impotence.
Bastienne and Marguerite took the head of the coffin between them, while
Claude carried the foot, and the mournful little procession left the
hut, and climbed the hill on which the grave had been dug. Slowly their
burden was lowered into the shallow earth; and, holding the crucifix
above it, they offered up prayers for the rest of the soul which had
been so suddenly snatched from among them. It was hard to cast the first
spadeful of earth upon the coffin. As each pebble struck the lid, it
seemed to them as if Marie must feel the blows. But the bitter duty was
at last at an end, the last stone was placed on the rude monument which
marked Marie's resting-place, and sadly they turned to leave the spot.
The storm had been steadily increasing, and now the mad waves lashed and
rolled like mighty, moving mountains upon the shore. The far-thrown
spray fell in torrents about their hut. They were chilled to the bone,
and sat shivering all day about the great log fire which burned in their
huge, out-of-door fireplace. At last the fury of the gale drove them
indoors, and all three sat huddled in their blankets, unable to keep
warm.
This was but the prelude to winter. But before that dread season settled
down in all its northern fierceness, they were to know a few days of
happy respite. Next morning the storm had abated, and a bright sun
gleamed across the long, smooth rollers that still swept in upon the
shore. There was a strange feeling of summer in the air, and Claude, who
remembered his experiences at Quebec, when with Cartier on his second
voyage, knew that the "Indian Summer," the time set apart by the red men
to make their final preparations for winter, was upon them. For a week
the warm sun shone through the mellow haze, and for a week, from
morning till night, all three toiled to lay an abundant store of
firewood about their hut. It was well that they had this work to occupy
their time, for the heap of stones, marking the spot where their dead
companion lay, weighed upon their spirits. By the end of the week their
little hut was almost hidden from view by the great piles of wood they
had gathered, and the ringing blows of Claude's axe ceased.
He had not been wrong; it was but a short respite. Scarcely had they
finished their preparations when a raw, penetrating wind, that seemed to
separate the flesh from the bone, blew down from the north. The birds
had now all gone, except the hardier northern ones. Their songs had
ceased; naught was heard but the sound of the restless waves, which kept
up an eternal moaning, the soughing of the pines, and the wild shrieks
of the sea-birds, whose cries seemed to grow drearier with the approach
of winter--modulated, as it were, to the weird north wind.
The three were now forced to remain inside their hut, but the great fire
which burned at the door gave them no warmth. There was but one course
to follow; a fire must be made within the hut. Claude had long dreaded
this inevitable thing, and had put off the evil day while he could. He
had been in the huts of the Montagnais, at Tadousac, during the depth of
winter, and had seen those shivering savages, half blind with the smoke,
crouching about a fire in the centre of their hut, while the smoke,
after circling their abode, found its way out through an opening cut in
the roof. But as winter drew nearer, he could only imitate the red men;
and, with great reluctance, he began to build a fireplace inside their
dwelling. The task completed, with saw and axe he cut an aperture above
it, and, piling a heap of branches on the stones, set fire to them. The
lurid flames for a moment brightened the interior; but soon, half
blinded, the women rushed choking into the open air, while the smoke
curled upwards, and the warm fire glowed within. There was nothing else
to do; they must become accustomed to the discomfort; and, driven in by
the cold, they crowded about the blaze. Claude could not but feel how
soon such a life must make them even as the red men. Their eyes grew
weak and bloodshot; poor old Bastienne became almost blind, and soon
could only grope her way about the hut.
Winter in Canada is now a delightful season for those who have the means
to resist its fiercer aspects, and can battle with and conquer it. The
keen, bracing air, that makes the blood tingle in the veins, and the
roses come to the cheek, calls out the latent energy of the Canadian;
but even now, for the poor, winter is a source of dread; the savage
still sees its approach with terror, and the sick, shut off from the
clear air of heaven, pray for its flight. In those early times it was a
season to be dreaded by all alike, even along the banks of the broad
Hochelaga; but none can conceive, save those who have experienced them,
the awful horrors of a winter spent far north on a lonely island in the
Atlantic. The cold ceased not, day or night; the wind kept up a
continual moaning; the mighty sea swept in with long green rollers,
smashed the ice that made about the shores, and heaped it in great,
glittering grinding piles upon the beach. The hungry animals prowled
about the hut, and fought over the bones which were cast out to them.
The hares had changed their coats, and now bounded snow-white across the
snow-covered ground. They were dainty eating, and Claude's arquebuse
cracked through the woods on the short winter days, as he kept the
larder stocked with food--a welcome change after the salt beef which had
been set ashore with the women.
Bastienne and Marguerite found some relief from the terrible loneliness
which brooded over the island by working, when the light permitted, over
their wardrobe and Claude's. They had abundance of clothing for
themselves, but Claude had nothing but the garb in which he had swum
ashore. The two women contrived, by taking to pieces some of the
stoutest of their own outdoor garments, to patch him up a homely suit.
Rough, indeed, it was, and Claude felt like the King's jester when he
put it on; but no gay gallants of France were there to see him, and he
was even able to smile at the sorry figure he cut.
If ever man prayed for winter to end, it was he. He saw that it was
killing the two women, and the sharp pains in his own breast warned him
that the bitter, piercing winds had done their work, and that unless
relief came soon, he must succumb.
Old Bastienne was the greatest sufferer. Age was beginning to tell upon
her; and she, who had been as strong as a horse, now became weak as a
child. She went stumbling about her daily tasks. To save "her children,"
as she called the other two, she exposed herself to the cold and storm;
and although Claude begged her not to do work beyond her strength, she
would, when he was absent, take his axe and break the logs for the fire,
or wade through great drifts of snow to the spring which bubbled, sweet,
and fresh, and living, in this land of gloom and death.
The fire in the hut was never allowed to burn out; and towards spring
the three were hardly recognisable, so black had they become with the
smoke and the fierce blaze of the fire, about which they sat during the
long, cold evenings, and often through entire days, when five minutes in
the open air would have frozen any exposed parts of their bodies.
But the dull monotony of this ice, and snow, and frost could not last
for ever. In early March a faint feeling of spring was perceptible in
the air; the sea sounded less dread; the birds' cries lost some of their
harshness; and before the end of the month they were aroused by a cheery
"Pip, pip, pop!" oft and vigorously repeated from the top of their hut.
They knew the cry. It was the first robin. Spring was come at last. They
went to the door, almost expecting to see the bare ground, and to hear
the rustling leaves. But a full foot of snow buried the whole island
beneath it; and a winter chill was still in the air, despite the robin's
whistle and the warm sun.
The robin was an old friend. He had been the last bird to leave in the
autumn, and, when he saw them, he saucily flew to his accustomed
feeding-place, expecting his morning meal. Nor was he disappointed. Day
by day they delighted his heart with finely-crushed crumbs of the hard
biscuit De Roberval had put on shore with them. Though he came early,
spring seemed still far away. No other birds returned for several weeks,
not even the mate of this red-breasted fore-runner of summer. Possibly
she had been lost on the stormy trip from the mainland; or possibly he
had merely been sent ahead as a sentinel to spy out the land, and see if
it were fit for its summer residents.
April crept slowly by, and towards the end a few plaintive-voiced
sparrows added their songs to the vigorous, self-confident notes of the
robin. Soon the whole island one morning burst into song, and spring was
indeed with them. The snow had vanished, save in the hollows and in the
shaded spots, and the grass here and there began to take on the fresh,
living green which rejoiced their hearts.
But spring was to bring small joy to them. Faithful old Bastienne grew
weaker day by day. Claude and Marguerite were filled with pity as they
saw her sitting, helpless and dejected, on the rude seat near the
outdoor fireplace. She could scarcely walk, and the hollow, choking
cough, which sounded like a death-knell in their ears, told them she had
not long to live. They dreaded seeing her pine and die before their
eyes, while they were powerless to help her.
But the gods were kinder to them all than they had anticipated. Coming
back one day early in May from a long ramble through the woods, where
they had gathered a profusion of wild flowers, Claude and Marguerite
found the old servant stretched lifeless on the slope before the door of
the hut. She had fallen forward on her face from her accustomed seat
near the fire, and was quite dead. There were no marks of suffering upon
her features; her end had seemingly been as peaceful as it was sudden,
and her spirit had, doubtless, wandered back to the sunny slopes of the
Somme, and the broad fields and blooming orchards of her beloved
Picardy.
They laid her body to rest beside Marie's, and the faithful old peasant
and the daughter of a noble slept side by side--equal in death.
The task completed, the two who were left wandered hand in hand in
silence about their lonely island, while on every side the birds fluted
joyously, and all Nature rejoiced in the beauty of the spring--unheeding
the presence of death.
As Claude gazed longingly over the wide, green waters, far off he
noticed a tiny speck, which, at first, seemed like the top of an
iceberg. Nearer it came, till it grew definite, and he saw, clearly
outlined against the sky, a vessel under full sail, steering towards the
straits of Belle Isle. It was the first ship they had seen, and they
rushed to their fire, and heaped it high with loads of dry boughs until
the flames shot into the air, and the smoke curled upwards in a mighty
column, and then spread over the ocean. They hoped to see the vessel
change her course and bear down upon their island. But their hopes were
in vain. She kept steadily on her way, and before night fell she had
vanished from their sight on the horizon.
On the high poop of the ship La Pommeraye paced with rapid, nervous
step. Land was in sight at last; he would soon be in the St Lawrence,
and with Marguerite. So he thought; while they prayed that the unknown
vessel might come a little nearer so that they might hail it.
As the ship passed away, Claude, in his despair, called on God to curse
the tyrant who had brought this suffering upon them; and, while he
prayed far away in Charlesbourg Royal, Roberval, on the eve of
departure, had six of his men stripped to the waist, lined up in the
square, and flogged till the blood streamed down their backs. The next
morning his ships were bearing away for the Old World, his hopes broken,
and his heart within him more savage than ever.