Adventures of Radisson (3 page)

“Shut up!” Radisson retorted. He was leading the way, and stood up straight to face Mathurin. “You're going to scare the geese!”

At the same time, a first goose took flight in the distance, then another, then ten, then a hundred, then a thousand all at once! A whole white cloud of them swelled, banked, then pitched to the west in one exquisite movement. Radisson ran in their direction, took aim, and fired… But they were too far away. Their highly coveted prey remained beyond their reach. François didn't even bother firing. Radisson turned round angrily and upbraided Mathurin: “It's your fault! If you hadn't said anything, we'd have been close enough to get at them!”

“You're the one who shouted!” retorted Mathurin. “It's your fault! You don't even know how to hunt! I'm not taking lessons from you!”

The two friends pushed and shoved each other for a moment. François stayed to one side. He was the only experienced hunter among them and he knew that patience was the key— a quality that Radisson still lacked. When peace reigned once again between the two companions, he asked them to walk back to within sight of the fort and work out what to do next. When Trois-Rivières was once again close by, Radisson again convinced them to return to where the geese were. And so they headed westward again, this time following François' lead, which meant walking across the cleared fields tilled by the rare farmers who lived outside the Trois-Rivières stockade, a route that François believed would be safer.

No sooner had they gotten close to the first farm house than a man shouted out to them from inside the building: “Halt!” A middle-aged
habitant
with a stoop unbolted his door and came out carrying a musket. “You young 'uns are all mad! The Iroquois are out in droves— you're going to get yourselves massacred! Now clear off before I fill your hides full of lead!”

The threat set the three lads back on their heels: now they didn't know what to think. But François recognized the farmer and remembered that he had a bad reputation: it was Old Man Bouchard, who sold alcohol to the Wildmen, even though the Jesuits didn't allow it. And he didn't seem to be all there. Mathurin, who was already scared stiff, believed every word he said, but François wondered if he'd been drinking and wanted to see if what he was saying really made sense.

“Where did you see them then?” he asked.

“Down by the river,” replied Bouchard, pointing to the water. “Right down there at the far end of my field!”

Radisson stared into the distance, even less convinced than François.

“Sure you can see that far, old man?” he asked arrogantly.

“Dead right I can, boy! No mistaking an Iroquois. Saw a hundred of them, I did. With feathers sticking out of their heads. Now get back home before they eat you up for dinner!”

“We're going, we're going,” said Mathurin, his voice shaking.

“Over there?” Radisson asked. “Right where I can see the Bogeyman?”

“Go to hell, you little brat! Too bad for you if they scalp you. I warned you. Now goodnight all!”

And with that the farmer disappeared back into his house just as quickly as he'd come out. They could hear him sliding the bar back across his door. Two seconds later his worried face reappeared in the tiny window overlooking the St. Lawrence. He was still holding his fowling piece.

“If you ask me, we should go look for footprints,” suggested François. “May as well be clear about it in our own minds. If they are here, we'll go warn Dandonneau right away. Muskets at the ready, lads. We need to be careful.”

“Oh, no!” Mathurin sighed.

Once they reached the edge of the forest separating the cleared field from the river, the young adventurers peered long and hard into the bushes, then inspected the ground for footprints. They listened to the wind whistling through the branches, the cracks of vegetation, and the far-off cackling of wildfowl. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

“We'll keep going as far as the river,” announced Radisson, walking deeper into the woods.

Ready for anything, they moved slowly from one tree to another. Terrified, Mathurin fell behind, following his companions reluctantly, shaking. Radisson and François motioned to each other. They pointed out a tree, a grove, or a shadow, and covered each other. Fifty feet further on, when they at last reached the shoreline, Radisson let his guard down: “See? No Iroquois here. The old fool was wrong!” François, who was less certain, continued to scan the ground, searching apprehensively for the slightest evidence that would confirm his intuition.

“Just because we haven't seen any Iroquois doesn't mean they're not here,” he said at last. “They're masters of concealment.”

“Whatever,” Radisson replied. “They're not ghosts, you know— just Iroquois!”

“That shows you don't know them,” François answered, continuing to examine their surroundings, as though he felt like he was being spied on. “There's nothing more cunning than an Iroquois. You'd better learn that quickly or you won't last long in New France.”

“Perhaps. But at the minute all I see is thousands of geese right over there. Follow me! This time we're not going to miss out!”

“No way!” said François. “I'm going back to Trois-Rivières. We've already gone much further than we wanted to. It's dangerous out here. We need to warn Dandonneau that Old Bouchard has seen Iroquois.”

“Is there something wrong with your head?” Radisson was starting to lose his temper. “We have no more than a hundred paces to go and then we can kill as many geese as we like. Old Bouchard is half mad. We haven't seen the slightest trace of any Iroquois. And you want to go running back to your mommy? You're nothing but a chicken, François Godefroy! I promised Marguerite I would bring back goose for tonight's dinner and by God that's exactly what I'm going to do! So long, scaredy-cats! Get yourselves laughed at, if you like. I'm going on.”

Radisson turned on his heels and moved rapidly toward the geese, bent over so as not to scare them again. Mathurin couldn't wait to get back to the fort, but François hesitated for a long while, his teeth clenched and his pride wounded. Finally he decided that he was duty bound to return to the fort and warn Dandonneau, and headed back toward Trois-Rivières.

“Let's go,” he whispered to Mathurin. “We'll go back along the shore. If we're lucky, we'll run into the geese along the way.”

I
T TOOK
R
ADISSON
a few minutes to reach the geese he'd thought were much closer. Thousands of geese and ducks were resting nonchalantly in the middle of a huge expanse of partially submerged bulrushes. He walked slowly toward them, bent double, so as not to frighten them away. The cold water rushed into his moccasins and was soon up to his knees. He kept going, careful to keep the powder in his shoulder bag dry. His second musket was slung across his shoulder, hampering his progress, but he was glad he had brought it. He'd be able to shoot twice each time and bag more birds.

The geese were nervous; Radisson knew they'd take off at the slightest movement. As soon as he reckoned he was close enough to be sure of hitting the target, he stopped, took aim, and fired a first time. Hundreds of frightened birds flapped their wings in panic, scooping frantically at the water with their feet as they took to the air, all crying out at once. Radisson grabbed his other musket, aimed, and fired a second time. A handful of birds fell from a sky now black and white and brown with them. A deafening racket of straining wings, anguished cackles, and whipped-up water filled the air. The immense flock took flight, pirouetted, and scattered itself overhead. Some of the geese landed much further away, but masses of them rose higher and higher in the sky, lost for good.

Radisson stood gaping at the dazzling spectacle and took a moment or two to find his bearings. Now all he had to do was collect the dozen or so dead geese floating not too far away. He waded further out until he was knee deep in water, trying hard to keep his shoulder bag and muskets dry. It was hard going, hauling the geese one by one back to shore. He managed to pile up seven of them, nice and dry on a little mound of sand. Then, without warning, cold and fatigue assailed him. Radisson had to sit down and rest for a long while, leaving his muskets to dry in the sun. Despite his precautions the butts were soaked, but the firing mechanisms and barrels were still dry. He devoured the bread Marguerite gave him. The food made him feel better, but it couldn't drive away the concern that was beginning to gnaw at him. He had strayed much too far. Here he was, all alone, making enough noise to draw any number of Iroquois who might have happened to be in the neighbourhood. He hoped that François was wrong about them, that his father, the man from Montréal, and Old Bouchard were all wrong too… otherwise he could be in real trouble.

Radisson managed to keep calm and get his bearings. Judging by the sun, it must have been two o'clock in the afternoon and he was about three hours from Trois-Rivières. He was reassured at the thought that he'd be able to make it back home by nightfall, even before the evening Angelus if he got a move on. First, though, he reloaded his muskets just to be sure, checking that the powder was still dry. After carefully tamping the powder well down into the barrel he slid in the lead shot and the piece of wadding that kept everything in place. He picked up Jean Véron's weapon and filled it with six medium-sized shots that would be sure to injure any assailants he might encounter and send them packing. He put his biggest lead shot into his own, to kill if need be.

Radisson's pants and moccasins were still soaked, but the sun was beating down; he began to warm up a bit as the cold started to fade. He felt ready to set off on the long way home. But the seven geese were dreadfully heavy and burdensome; he didn't quite know how he was going to carry them. His shoulder bag wouldn't be enough. After thinking it over for a while, he came up with an ingenious solution. After winding the strap of his bag around the long necks of his catch, he threw the bag over his shoulder, three birds behind him and three in front. Then he slung Jean Véron's gun over his free shoulder and grabbed the seventh goose by the neck with his left hand, carrying his own musket in his right hand. It was heavy, but he could just about manage. His feet dragging, Radisson headed straight along the shoreline, avoiding the obstacle-filled woods that would only slow him down. The walk would be long and tiring, but he was determined to bring his haul home with him, all of it.

After an hour, Radisson was exhausted. “These geese weigh a ton!” he groaned. He stopped to drink clear, fresh water from the river and rest for a moment. Barely had he refreshed himself when he sensed a presence behind him. He whirled around like lightning— but there was no one to be seen. And yet he still felt danger tying his stomach in knots. Radisson picked up his firearms and geese and broke into a run. He dashed headlong into the woods, took a few strides, and then abruptly crouched down, not moving, hardly breathing, nervous, alert to everything around him. But he heard only the wind in the trees, the birds singing, and the pounding of his heart … not the slightest sound to draw his suspicion. He tried to calm himself. In vain. “I'm tired,” he thought. Images of grimacing Iroquois descended upon him, like flies over a corpse. He must be going mad, he thought; death was shrieking in his ears. He couldn't take it any longer, left everything right where it was, and crawled away with one musket. He tracked back on himself in a roundabout way, hiding opposite the geese tied up to his shoulder bag, beside Jean Véron's gun, which he'd left at the foot of a tall tree. “If the Iroquois are about,” he said to himself, “they're going to come for my spoils.” Then, all he'd have to do was run for his life.

But nothing happened. For what seemed forever, Radisson froze. Nobody came. He shook his head with all his strength to chase away the bad thoughts that were tormenting him. At last he got back on his feet and went to pick up his geese. He knew he had to make tracks if he wanted to reach Trois-Rivières by nightfall. Nothing could stand in his way. He swallowed the last of his bread and retraced his steps back to the riverbank with his heavy load, then headed quickly along the shore.

Time flew by without him noticing. He tried his best not to think of anything at all. Just walk as fast as he could. He thought of Marguerite, all the same, and her bright idea of giving him bread for the day. “God bless you, dear sister,” he thought. He felt annoyed at himself for breaking their agreement. “Just so you stay within sight of the fort and François and your friends go with you,” he heard her saying to him again and again, as it sank in just how reckless he'd been. But his ordeal was nearing an end: he recognized the spot where he left his companions. Suddenly he felt much calmer. He promised to give a goose each to François, Mathurin, and the guard that let them out to make amends. There was plenty of meat for everyone. He'd give two to his sister Françoise for the Jesuits, and that would leave two for him and Marguerite. To hell with Jean Véron if there was none left by the time he got back! Too bad for him. Everyone would be happy. All's well that ends well. He'd learn from this…