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.