THE BITTER WINTER OF CANADA
The Canadian winter, that is now a time of so much animation and gayety
in the city of Quebec, proved a season of terror, starvation, sickness,
and death to the handful of Frenchmen left by Champlain to guard his
infant settlement. At its beginning they recklessly squandered their
stores, eating and drinking with no thought of the morrow. If Champlain
had been with them he would have taught them differently, for he had
already passed several winters in the country and knew their bitter
meaning. But, lacking his wise guidance, they indulged in riotous
living until suddenly they came face to face with famine. The winter
was not more than half spent when this happened, and they began to
suffer from hunger.
Now that it was too late for any real good, Chauvin seized every
particle of food that remained, locked it up, and doled it out to his
men in such meagre allowance as barely served to keep life in their
shivering bodies. He also sent them into the woods to hunt, or to
dig roots and groundnuts, with which to help out their scanty fare.
He had expected to be able to purchase all the provisions he needed
from Indians, who, during the summer, had brought game to the fort
in abundance, but now not a native was to be seen except a few poor
wretches who came empty-handed and as beggars.
Unlike their brethren of the south, who cultivated fields and stored
harvests for the winter, the improvident dwellers of that region lived
wholly by hunting, feasting while game was plentiful and starving when
it was gone.
In all this time no one within the limits of that wretched fort
suffered as did the son of Longfeather. From the day that he was thrust
into his prison he was not allowed to leave it for a breath of outside
air, or a glimpse of the freedom for which his soul longed, until it
seemed as though he would rather die than remain within those hated
walls another minute.
And with it all he had no idea why he was thus confined or what fate
was in store for him. Only, as days, weeks, and months passed, he
became more and more certain that he was to have no release save only
by death itself. But one thing kept him from seeking this instead of
waiting for it, and that was the friendship of the young Indian who,
wounded and helpless, had been brought to him during the first hour of
his imprisonment. Tasquanto's recovery was slow, and for many weeks he
depended upon Nahma for everything. It did not take long for these two,
drawn to each other by the bonds of race and a common misfortune, to
cement a friendship, and swear that they would either gain freedom or
perish together.
Although they could not plan an escape from their closely guarded
prison and must wait for chance to aid them, they spent hours in
discussing the course to be pursued if ever they got beyond those hated
walls.
"We must make all haste to cross the river," said Tasquanto, "for the
Hurons would quickly kill us if we remained on this side. If it is
frozen that will be easy. If not, we must steal one of the clumsy
boats of these awkward white men, who make everything bigger and
heavier than is needful. On the other side we will conceal ourselves
until we can build a canoe, and then we will go southward. Beyond that
I cannot see, for if we go to the country of thy people, they will kill
me; while it would be dangerous for thee, an Iroquois, to be found in
my country."
"But I am not of the Iroquois," protested Nahma.
"Not of the Iroquois! Who, then, are thy people?"
"That I know not. I was found among the Maquas, who are a tribe of
the Iroquois, sorely wounded and without memory of aught that had
ever happened before that time. Since then I have been an Iroquois by
adoption, but it is certain that I am not one by birth."
This statement so changed the aspect of affairs that it was agreed they
should travel towards the country of the Abenakis in case an escape
could be effected. It also afforded a fruitful topic of speculation,
and thus helped pass the weary hours.
Finally, the time came when Tasquanto was so fully recovered that he
was sent out to hunt food for the hungry garrison, and during the day
Nahma was left alone, since only at night was his companion allowed to
rejoin him. Chauvin realized that if both were sent into the woods they
would at once make good their escape; while, from the friendship he had
noted between them, he felt assured that Tasquanto would return to his
comrade so long as the latter was held. Nor did he dare allow Nahma to
escape while there was a chance of Champlain's return.
So our poor lad shivered and starved in his hated prison-house, finding
his only occupation in making snow-shoes from materials furnished by
Tasquanto. He designed them for his own use, but they were taken from
him by his guards as fast as completed, so that in the end he had
nothing to show for his labors. One night a great grief befell him;
Tasquanto failed to appear at the usual hour, nor did he come during
the night, though Nahma watched and waited for him until morning. He
asked eager questions of the guard who brought his miserable breakfast,
but the man refused to answer, and all that day our lad sat in a
lethargy of despair, careless whether he lived or died.
The following night was one of furious storm and bitter cold. The north
wind roaring through the bending forest shrieked and howled in savage
glee as it struck the forlorn little outpost of white men. It leaped
down the wide-throated chimneys and scattered their fires. It slammed
shutters and doors, while if any ventured abroad, it blinded and choked
them with stinging volleys of snowdrift. So fierce and deadly was it
that even military discipline came to an end, and all sentries were
permitted to abandon their posts.
Nahma sat alone in the dark, numbed and nearly perished with the cold,
for he had burned up the last bit of fuel brought him two days earlier
by Tasquanto, and none had been supplied since. In the many voices of
the storm, now shrill and clamorous, then deep and menacing, and again
filled with weird moanings that died in long-drawn sighs, he heard the
spirits of the dead, the Okis of another world, calling to him, and
bidding him share their wild freedom. He knew that he had but to yield
to the drowsiness already overpowering him, and the deadly cold would
speedily release him from all earthly prisons. Perhaps Tasquanto's
spirit was among those now calling; yes, he was sure of it, for he
recognized his friend's voice. "Massasoit," it called, "Massasoit, wake
up! It is I, Tasquanto, thy brother. Wake up and come to me."
The cry was agonized in its intensity, and after a little even
Nahma's dulling senses recognized that it was uttered by human lips.
At the same time he felt that the storm was beating on his face, and
struggling weakly to his feet, he gained the window through which it
came. Its shutter was wide open, and beyond its bars stood Tasquanto
speaking to him.
"I thought thee dead, my brother, for I have called many times without
answer," said Tasquanto, as he became aware that his friend was at hand.
"And I believed thy voice to be that of thy spirit, for I also thought
thee gone to the place of the dead," replied Nahma. "Why have you
remained away from me these many hours?"
"It is because they drove me from the gate, saying that my hunting
was of no avail, and that I should not longer eat of their stores. But
I could not go, my brother, without word with thee, and now has the
storm-god given me a chance for speaking. If it were not for these bars
we could do more than speak, for those who kept guard have been driven
to shelter, and there is none to hinder us from going away together.
But they may not be broken, and so we must wait until other means are
found for thy release. But fear not that I will desert thee. I have
found a way for passing the wall, and will come to this place whenever
it may be done without notice. In the mean time I will prepare for our
flight. Already have I built a lodge in a safe place beyond the river,
and----"
Here Tasquanto's words were suddenly interrupted, and the heavy shutter
was slammed to as though by a fierce gust of wind. Then the door was
flung open and the faint gleam of a horn lantern illumined the interior.
A little earlier on that same evening Chauvin, while talking with one
of his officers concerning Champlain and his unexplained absence, had
been reminded of the young Indian whom the governor had consigned to
his care, but to whom he had not given a thought in many days. Now he
inquired carelessly whether he were alive or dead.
"I know not," replied the officer, who, following his chief's example,
had not concerned himself about the fate of so insignificant a being as
a captive Indian.
"And why do you not know?" cried Chauvin, with a sudden burst of
petulant rage. "It is your duty to know, and to be ready with instant
report concerning everything taking place within the walls of Quebec.
Do you think because the governor chooses to absent himself for a while
that no one is left here to maintain his authority? By the saints,
monsieur, I will give you cause to remember that Pierre Chauvin is not
to be trifled with, and that when he asks a question he expects it to
be promptly answered. Go, then, at once, sir, and inform yourself by
personal observation of the condition of this prisoner, or haply you
may find yourself in his place."
Without daring to reply, the bewildered officer bowed and left the
room. Thus it happened that, accompanied by a soldier whom he had
summoned to attend him, he came to Nahma's prison-house in time to
interrupt the conversation between him and Tasquanto and frighten the
latter into a precipitate retreat.
Finding, to his satisfaction, that the prisoner was still alive, the
officer demanded of the soldier why, in such weather, he was kept
without fire.
The soldier replied that it had been left to the other Indian to
provide the guard-house with fuel; whereupon his superior passed out to
him the rating he himself had received from Chauvin.
"And so, _canaille_, you leave your duties to be performed by a
miserable skulking savage. A pretty state of affairs in a king's
fortress. Bring wood at once, sir, and fire, also fetch something in
the way of food, for this wretch looks like to die of starvation, a
thing that may not be allowed of the governor's own prisoner, even
though he be a heathen."
So on that night of bitter tempest not only were Nahma's spirits raised
by a new hope, but the horrors of freezing and starvation that had
threatened his life were sensibly mitigated. Two days later came the
first word received from Champlain since his hurried departure for
Tadousac four months earlier.