For a Little Summer’s Sleep
We vaulted the fence, jumped a well-cut ditch (I took note that Anderson
was an excellent farmer), and ran across the fields. Presently came a
deep, baying bark, and a great, light-coloured English mastiff came
bounding toward us.
“Quiet, Ban!” said Nicole; and the huge beast, with a puppy-whine of
delight, fell fawning at his knees. We were close to the house. Nicole
stopped, and pointed to a cabin just visible at the foot of a long slope
falling away to our right.
“Julie’s brother may chance to be there, Master Paul,” said he. “He is
known for his devotion to Monsieur Anderson, whom few of us love. I will
go wake the lad, if he’s there, while you rouse the master.”
“If you should fail to get back this way, my friend,” said I, “let us
meet, say, at the boat.”
“Yes, at the boat,” he answered confidently.
I paused, partly to get breath, partly to follow him with a look of
grateful admiration, the modest, still, strong, faithful retainer, of a
type nigh vanished. He ran with his black-shock head thrust forward, and
the great dog bounded beside him like a kitten.
It was the last I ever saw of Nicole Brun; nor to this day, for all my
searching, have I had word of what befell him. Of the dog I learned
something, seeing his skin, a year later, worn upon the shoulders of an
Indian boy of the Micmac settlement. From this I could make shrewd guess
at the fate of my Nicole; but the Indian lies astutely, and I could
prove nothing. Sleep well, Nicole, my brave and true!
George Anderson’s wide red door carried a brass knocker which grinned
venomously in the moonlight. My first summons brought no answer. Then I
thundered again, imperatively, and I heard Anderson’s voice within,
calling to servants. No servants made reply, so again I hammered, and
shook fiercely at the door. Then he came himself, looking bewildered.
“Monsieur Grande, pardon me! The servants”—
“The servants have fled,” I interrupted. “Come quickly! There is not a
minute to lose. The abbé’s savages are near. They are coming to scalp
you and burn your house. We will leave them the house.”
There was no sign of fear on his face, merely annoyance; and I saw that
his mind worked but heavily.
“Come in!” he said, leading the way into a wide room looking out upon
the Kenneticook tide. “I won’t be driven by those curs. They dare not
touch me. At the worst, with the help of the servants we can fight them
off. Sit down, monsieur.”
And he proceeded calmly to pull on his boots.
I had followed him inside, wild at his obstinacy.
“I tell you,” said I, “they want your scalp. The servants are traitors
and have stolen away while you slept. We are alone. Come, man, come!
Would you have _my_ throat cut, too?” And I shook him by the shoulder.
“Why have _you_ come?” he asked, unmoved, staring at me.
“For the sake of Yvonne de Lamourie!”
“Oh!” said he, eying me with a slow hostility.
“You fool!” I exclaimed. “They have burned De Lamourie’s. I swore to
Yvonne de Lamourie that I would save you or die with you. If you think
she loves you, stir yourself. I cannot carry you. Look at that!”
I pointed to the window. At Yvonne’s name he had risen to his feet. He
looked out. A group of canoes was turning in to shore, not two furlongs
distant.
“Where is she?” he inquired, alert at last.
“Safe,” said I curtly, “at Father Fafard’s.”
Still he wavered, brave, but undecided. I think he wondered why I was
her chosen messenger.
“She is in a frenzy at your peril,” I said, though the words stuck in my
throat. That moved him. His face lighted with boyish pleasure.
“Come!” he cried, as if he had been urging me all the time. “We’ll slip
out at the back, and keep the buildings between us and the river till we
reach the woods.”
“Have you no weapon?” I asked.
“No,” said he, “but this will do,” and he picked up a heavy oak stick
from behind the door of the room.
Great as was the haste, I told him to lock the main door. Then as we
slipped out at the back we locked the kitchen door behind us. I knew
this would delay the chase; whereas if they found the doors open they
would realize at once the escape of their intended victim and rush in
pursuit, leaving the little matter of the fire to be seen to afterwards.
From the back door we darted to the garden, a thicket of pole beans and
hops and hollyhocks. From the furthest skirt of these shelters we ran
along a ditch that fenced a field of growing buckwheat, not yet high
enough to give covert; but I think we kept well in shadow of the house
all the way to the woods. If afterwards our enemies tracked us with what
seemed a quite unnecessary promptitude and ease, it must be remembered
that our trail was not obscure.
I led the flight, intending we should strike the creek at some distance
above the boat and make our way down to it along the water’s edge, to
cover our traces. The more we could divide our pursuers, the better
would be our chances in the struggle, if overtaken. The pace I set was a
sharp one, and soon, as I could perceive by his breathing, began to tell
upon my heavy-limbed and unhardened companion. I slackened gradually,
that he might not think I did it on his account.
In a very few minutes there arose behind us, coming thinly through the
trees, the screeching war-whoop of the Micmacs, which has ever seemed to
me more demoniacal and inhuman than even that of the Iroquois. Then,
when we took time to glance over our shoulders, we marked a red glare
climbing slowly. I judged that our escape was by this time discovered,
and the wolves hot upon our trail.
To my companion, however, the sight brought a different thought.
“Where were you,” he gasped, “when they attacked De Lamourie’s? Did you
not—promise—to save the place?”
“I was a fool,” said I, between my teeth. “I thought the might of my
name had saved it. I went to the Habitants. When I got back it was
over.”
“Ah!” was all he said, husbanding his breath.
“And they think I am a traitor—that I sanctioned it,” I went on in a
bitter voice.
He gave a short laugh, impatiently.
“Who?” he asked.
“Monsieur and Madame,” said I, “and, possibly, Mademoiselle also.”
“I could—have told them better than that,” he panted; “I know a man.”
Under the circumstances I did not think that modesty required me to
disclaim the compliment.
A little further on he clutched me by the arm, and stopped, gasping.
“Blown,” said he, smiling, as if the situation were quite casual.
“Must—one minute.”
I chafed, but stood motionless.
Suddenly there was a heavy crash some distance behind us.
“They are so sure, they scorn the least precaution,” I whispered,
foolishly wroth at their confidence. “But come, though your lungs should
burst for it,” I went on. “I will seize the first hiding-place.”
He rallied like a man, and we raced on with fresh speed. Indeed, as I
look back upon it, I see that he did miraculously well for one so unused
to the exercise.
Five minutes later we came to a small brook crossing our path from left
to right toward the Kenneticook. It was a place of low, brushy shrubs
under large trees.
“Keep close to me,” I whispered, “and look sharp. We’ll stop right
here.”
I stepped into the middle of the brook, and he did likewise, carefully.
Setting our feet with precaution to disturb no stones, we descended the
stream some twenty paces, then crept ashore beneath the thick growth,
and lay at full length like logs.
“You must get your breathing down to silence absolute,” I whispered;
“they will be here in two minutes.”
In half a minute he had his laboring lungs in harness. Though within an
arm’s length of him I could hear no sound. But I could hear our pursuers
thrashing along on our trail. In a minute they were at the brook, to
find the trail cut short. I caught snatches of their guttural comment,
and laughed in my sleeve as I realized that Anderson’s very weakness was
going to serve our ends. The savages never dreamed that any one could be
winded from so short a run. Had their quarry gone up the brook or down
it, was all their wonder. Unable to decide, they split into two parties,
going either way. From the corner of my eye, violently twisted, I marked
seven redskins loping past down stream.
When they were out of hearing, I touched Anderson on the shoulder.
“Come,” said I, “now is our time.”
“That was neat, very,” he muttered, with a quiet little chuckle, rising
and throwing off the underbrush like an ox climbing out of his August
wallow.
“Straight ahead now for the creek,” I whispered, crossing the brook; but
a sound from behind made me turn. There stood a huge savage, much
astonished at the apparition of us.
His astonishment was our salvation. It delayed his signal yell. As his
breath drew in for it and I sprang with my sword, the Englishman was
upon him naked-handed. He forgot his stick; which indeed was well, for
his two hands at the redskin’s throat best settled the matter of the
signal. For a Quaker, whom I have heard to be peaceful folk, Anderson
seemed to me a good deal in earnest. Big and supple though the savage
was, he was choked in half a minute and his head knocked against a tree.
Anderson let him drop, a limp carcass, upon the underbrush, and stood
over him panting and clenching his fingers, ready to try a new hold.
I examined the painted mass.
“Not dead, quite!” said I. “But he’s as good as dead for an hour, I
should say. I think perhaps we need not finish him.”
“Better finish him, and make sure,” urged Anderson, to my open
astonishment. “He may stir up trouble for us later.”
But I was firm. I like, positively like, to kill my man in fair fight;
but once down he’s safe from me, though he were the devil himself.
“No,” said I, “you shall not. Come on. If the poor rascal ever gets over
that mauling, he’ll deserve to. _That_ was neat, now. You are much
wasted in Quakerdom, monsieur, when your English armies are needing good
men.”
He was following close at my heels, as I once more led the race through
the woods. He made no answer. Either he was saving his wind, or he was
angry at leaving a good job unfinished. I mocked myself in my own heart,
thinking:
“Paul, you fool, out of this big Quaker you have made a fighter, and he
seems to like it. You may find your hands full with him, one of these
days.”
The thought was pleasant to me on the whole, for it is ill and
dishonouring work to fight a man who is no fair match for you. That was
something I never could stomach, and have ever avoided, even though at
the cost of deep annoyance.
Now the ground began to rise, and I guessed we were nearing the creek at
a point where the banks were high.
“Nearly there,” I whispered encouragingly, and thrust forward with
sudden elation through a dense screen of underbrush. I was right—all too
right. The leafage parted as parts a cloud. There was no ground beneath
my feet.
“Back!” I hissed wildly, and went plunging down a dark steep, striking,
rebounding, clutching now at earth and now at air. At last it appeared
to me that I came partly to a stop and merely rolled; but it no longer
seemed worth while to grasp at anything.