The Adventures of Radisson. Back to the New World (5 page)

“As soon as we're in the trees,” Radisson ordered, “break him into a trot. But not too quickly. He'll have to keep going until we reach the other side. I'll lie down in the back and hide. If thieves block our path, I'll jump up. You get Buddy into a gallop, then charge them. We'll be able to surprise them. They won't know what hit them, Nicolas. Sound like a plan? You with me? Let's go!”

“This is all we needed,” Nicolas grumbled to himself. Here he was all alone, having to confront all the dangers in the world at once. It was the worst day of his life. The shadows and the damp made his blood run cold as they entered the forest. But he followed Radisson's orders. He snapped the reins and Buddy broke into a trot as Nicolas stared blankly ahead and prayed with all his heart that no harm would come to them.

Radisson scanned the woods and the path ahead, peering over Nicolas' shoulder and paying close attention to the slightest sound, like an Iroquois on the warpath. He was positive he would be able to hear bandits talking to each other above the creaking of the wheels and the clip-clop of the hoofs on the path. He clutched his eagle-head knife in one hand, his club in the other. The stones he had gathered rolled about on the floor of the cart. He feared nothing. He had thought of everything.

“Keep at it, Nicolas. We're going well. We're going to make it.”

The spirit of the eagle was watching over him and inspiring him to do the right thing, of that he was sure. Woe betide anyone who crossed their path. He would make mincemeat out of them. The cart moved forward at a right old clip, with barely a bump or a jolt across the even surface. Radisson was thrilled: at last they were moving forward as fast as he had hoped.

“Don't worry, Nicolas. We're almost there.”

Encouraged, the carter gave Buddy a slap with the reins. He could see the light at the end of the forest. Just five hundred metres more. He was going to make it… God have mercy on our souls, he repeated under his breath.

They came out into the open. The sun was disappearing on the horizon, behind the enormous steeple whose silhouette stood out against the fiery sky. It was still light as they entered the village. The inn welcomed them with open arms.

Nicolas brushed Buddy again and again by the light of a lantern in the stables. His horse had kept trotting right to the end. He had gotten very warm, but he didn't look exhausted. The carter was extraordinarily proud of his workmate. For years they had shared everything, good times and bad. They were in it together, almost like man and wife. Radisson hovered close by them since something approaching a state of grace was emanating from Nicolas, visibly surprised and pleased at what he had accomplished. After having seen him so terrorized, it was heartwarming to see him looking so glad.

“That's some horse you have there, Nicolas,” Radisson told him, giving Buddy a pat.

“Don't know a better one.”

As they shared a meal in the inn, Nicolas tried to sort out his thoughts. Although extremely tired, he felt more gratitude than resentment toward Radisson, who had shown him he was more resourceful than he had ever imagined. This small victory—a considerable one, to him—had given him a taste of freedom and excitement. With a little help from the wine, he felt like he was walking on air.

Radisson preferred to stay clear of wine. The sight of his brother Ganaha becoming the shadow of himself under the effects of alcohol had left a bad taste in his mouth. He considered it more sensible to keep his wits about him. Paris was still a long way away.

* * *

When they arrived in Nantes, Nicolas' brother-in-law put them up for the night. The innkeeper grimaced without a word of explanation when he heard Radisson was headed to Paris. Radisson, who was in a hurry to get back on the road, was not worried in the slightest. Early the next morning, Nicolas brought him down to the port and showed him where to find the boatmen who were heading upriver.

Along the quay, a number of lifeless craft were waiting for spring to arrive. A few small fishing boats moved across the estuary. Only a handful of flat-bottomed boats, designed for navigating the Loire, were loaded up with goods and ready to cast off to the towns and villages inland. Since Radisson saw no captain or crew, he had no idea if he would be allowed to board.

In the distance, a stout man was having trouble rolling a heavy barrel up an incline. He caught Radisson's eye and Radisson moved closer to get a better look. The man was quite old and swearing like a sailor. Seeing him arrive out of breath at the wharf's edge, giving the barrel one last shove to stack it next to a dozen more, then sitting down for a quick rest, swearing all the while, Radisson thought to himself that the man was surely in need of a helping hand. A dozen more barrels were waiting in the barge.

“Hello there!” Radisson shouted. “I can unload them for you, if you'd like!”

“Leave me alone! I can manage. Young good-for-nothings like you aren't in short supply round here.”

“My father is a merchant, sir. I've carried thousands of barrels before! I'm not afraid of a good day's work.”

“Are ye deaf?” the man exclaimed, with a threatening stare. “I told ye to leave me alone!”

“If you're going back upriver, I can help. I can do anything: carry things around, sail, fish. I'd like to help you, sir, if you're going towards Paris.”

The boatman took a moment to look the bold young man up and down. The morning was a fresh one, but he was covered in sweat. He spat on the ground, then asked:

“Know how to pilot a boat, do you?”

“Yes. I've crossed the ocean, sir. I took the helm of a store ship from Amsterdam to La Rochelle. I'm a good sailor.”

The boatman inspected Radisson. So he wanted to come aboard, did he? He seemed to be made of the right stuff. He looked strong and honest.

“Show me what you can do, lad. Hop down onto the barge, take a barrel, and bring it back up here. But be careful! It's good Vouvray wine I have in there. Break a barrel and I'll break every bone in yer body! Now get to it!”

Radisson ran down the slope, jumped onto the barge, tipped a barrel onto its side, rolled it along the gangway that came up from the barge, then pushed it quickly up the slope. With the boatman keeping a close eye on him, once on the wharf, he gave the barrel a shove just like the older man had done and put it beside the others. A nice, quick job. It reminded him of the days he had spent moving goods around with his father: brandy, boards, sacks of grain, scrap metal… anything that could be bought and sold in the neighbourhood.

“I see you were telling no lies,” the boatman told him, satisfied. “Follow me.”

They walked down together to the barge, where the big man gave him his orders.

“Bring in the sheet.”

Radisson found the right rope and yanked on it.

“Where's the halyard?”

Radisson pointed to the rope used to hoist the sail.

“Turn to the port side.”

Radisson pushed the tiller to the right to turn the boat left, all the while keeping an eye on the top of the mast as though he were looking at the sails.

“I could always take you on for a trial,” the man concluded, relieved to have found a helping hand. “So long as you bring all these barrels up to the wharf and you help me load the salt I have to bring to Orléans. But I'll tell you one thing, lad. I'll be keeping a very close eye on you. Any problems and you're off my boat. I'm not in the habit of trusting strangers, but I'm in a bit of a fix. And don't think you'll be getting paid for any of this! I'll feed you, that's all. Count yourself lucky I'm bringing you with me.”

J
oachin Touchet knew the river like the back of his hand. He had been shipping goods between Nantes and Orléans for as long as he could remember, on an old barge he called
La Louve
. She had just one square sail to catch the wind from the aft or side, but never a headwind. When the wind was against them, he had to drop anchor and wait, which always put him in a foul temper. For that reason, he pushed on as fast as he could every time the wind was favourable. Radisson was happy to travel with someone as impatient as he was. He admired his experience. But he did not appreciate his foul temper.

After four days on the river, they came within sight of Saumur, a prosperous, pretty village. They had to lower the mast to squeeze under a fine stone bridge on the way into town. A strong current working against them made it a delicate operation. As soon as the sail and mast were lowered, the barge would slow down a little, but there was no time to lose: otherwise the boat threatened to slide off in the opposite direction and right into the bridge. Radisson carefully prepared the manoeuvre. If he didn't manage it first go, Touchet would surely shower him with abuse, as was his wont.

“Lower the sail!” Touchet roared at him. “Lower the mast! Quick!”

Radisson lowered the sail in a flash and kept the mast under control as it fell. They slowed to a crawl and crept in under the bridge's central arch. They were almost through when the boat stopped moving forward and began to drift dangerously toward the nearest pillar. But Touchet skilfully corrected their course and narrowly managed to free the back of the boat.

“RAISE THE SAIL!” he screamed. “Quick!”

Radisson pulled on the mast and mainsail halyards with all his might. The captain caught a little wind, while Radisson deftly improved the sail's angle of approach. For a long time the boat was balanced between the wind and the current, right up against the sharp, threatening pillars. At last, thanks to their combined efforts,
La Louve
started moving forward again. Radisson was pleased at himself for managing to pull off such a tricky manoeuvre, but Touchet blasted him with all the names under the sun.

“YOU DIMWIT! When I tell you to get a move on, you get a move on, you hear! I don't know why I don't just throw you overboard.”

Radisson bit his tongue. He had come to understand that the sailor he was replacing had left Touchet in the lurch because there was no putting up with the man. He would be only too happy to walk out on him too, but he would rather endure him and make it to Orléans more quickly. At any rate, his anger came and went like a storm: it was intense, but over in a flash. Radisson went back to his usual position up at the front of the boat to watch the channel and the sandbanks while Touchet steered. Peace had been restored. Radisson took in the scenery of the Loire around him. He loved the river, lined with huge fallow fields, thriving villages, and impressive buildings.

Ahead of him, in the bright light of a day drawing to a close, a large castle caught his eye in the distance. Not only was its size impressive, it was incredibly elegant, too. Standing atop a hill, with its four high, square towers and breathtakingly high walls, the fortress dominated the whole region. Building a solid, impressive building like that had been no mean feat. Down below, the homes of Saumur formed a tight patchwork of red and black and sandstone and slate all around. Four or five impressive belltowers rose up from behind the homes like arrows moving skyward. The setting was superb.

Radisson enjoyed watching the wharves bustle with activity despite the late hour. Workers rounded barrels up into high piles near a ramp that plunged down into the water. A small craft drew up to bring them aboard and on to other village folk in need of them. Trade could be so useful.

The sun had set, but Touchet wanted to press on, keen to put off the hour when they would drop anchor in a quiet dock beside the river and spend the night there. Radisson had no complaints. But from where he was, he could no longer see how deep the water was. He couldn't see a thing. As he admired the shapes the town and castle made out against the coloured sky, behind them an invisible hand tugged on the barge. The sail was swollen with the wind, but they were making no headway. They must have run aground on a sandbank Radisson hadn't seen coming.

“THAT'S IT!” Touchet cried, leaving the helm to scoop something up.

Radisson watched as he dashed toward him, his back to the light, thinking he was coming over to see what was going on. But when he reached him, Touchet hit him hard with a stick.

“Take that, you incompetent oaf!”

The pain was so sharp it almost paralyzed Radisson's left arm. He managed to sidestep a second blow.

“Run my barge aground, will you? I'll teach you, you little swine! Take that! And that!”

Radisson straightened up, grabbed Touchet by the arm and used the boatman's momentum to fling him onto the deck. He immobilized him, bringing his full weight down onto him as he grabbed him by the throat with one hand and drew his knife with the other. Touchet struggled to break free. Radisson thrust the tip of the knife against his fat cheek and spat furiously into his ear:

“One more move and I'll cut your face!”

Touchet stopped struggling straight away, dumbfounded that his young passenger was armed and had landed him on his back so easily. Radisson tightened his stranglehold, half-smothering his captain and pushing him ever closer to the water. Touchet's back was pressed hard against the boat's side, his head dangling out into the void.

“I'll drown you,” Radisson threatened him.

Touchet groaned feebly. “Have mercy!”

“Why? Now why would I have mercy on you? You're the swine! Nobody hits me, you got it? Nobody!”

Touchet remained precariously balanced between the deck and the water. Radisson held himself back, not wanting to cut his cheek.

“Now listen up, you brute,” he snarled, shoving Touchet down nearer to the water, close to the point of no return. “Swear at me once more—once more!—or even look like you're going to hit me and I'll cut you up into little pieces and feed you to the fish! Nobody will ever hear from you again and nobody will ever know I was the one who cut you up. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, yes,” gasped Touchet, half-strangled. “Just let me go.”

“Now you're going to bring me to Orléans just like we said because you and I form quite the team, don't we? You're going to stay in your end of the boat at the helm and I'm going to stay up front. You keep your distance or else I'll put you on a spit like a chicken. Got it?”

Touchet nodded imperceptibly. But Radisson wasn't done yet. He shoved the captain overboard, catching him by the scruff of the neck as he fell toward the water. Slamming his body against the hull, he held him up by the throat with his forearm, the tip of his knife still pressed against his cheek.

“Didn't hear you. Do. You. Understand?”

“Have mercy,” implored Touchet. “I'll do anything you ask.”

“You'll bring me to Orléans?”

“Yes.”

“You won't ever raise a hand to me again? You'll stop shouting at me?”

“I promise. Just let me get back to my feet now. Please. I'm frightened. I don't know how to swim.”

“Just one more thing. You can see that your boat's still moving. It just needs a shove to set it on its way again. There was no need to hit me for that. So, if I let you come back on board, you can do the pushing. Then, as soon as the barge is free, you'll find a place nearby for us to spend the night. We won't talk about what just happened. Tomorrow morning we'll leave like everything's just fine. OK?”

“OK.”

* * *

The confrontation had cleared the air between the two men. They barely exchanged another word, but worked together better than before. A night's sleep helped ease the tension. There was now sufficient trust between them. Circumstances had made them partners, not rivals. But they had nothing else in common.

In many places, navigating was tougher than usual. It had barely rained for two months and the further upriver they went, the lower the water level was. The river was much shallower than normal. Whenever the wind blew, they had to cast anchor so the current wouldn't sweep them out of the narrow channel they could navigate in. Then as soon as the wind looked like being back in their favour, they took off again, clearing bridges, weaving their way between sandbanks, and passing by villages until they reached Tours, where a difficult stretch had become impassable.

Carters were waiting for the boatmen, offering to tow their boats from the riverbank. Radisson jumped out onto dry land to find out more. Two carters, who seemed honest and well intentioned to him, advised him to unload the barrels and store them on their carts while they pulled to avoid damaging the bottom of the boat by dragging it along the riverbed.

Radisson went back to explain the situation to Touchet, who got out to speak with the carters himself. The captain knew there was sometimes no getting around this solution, extreme though it was, and decided both men were honest and knew what they were doing. The main thing was to get themselves unstuck, all the while handling his precious
Louve
with care. And the price seemed fair to him. The deal was sealed quickly.

The two men pushed their cart out onto the riverbed to make transferring the barrels of salt easier. Radisson's strength was on show for all to see as he moved the barrels around with ease. Touchet gave him a hand, using a hoist fixed to the mast to lift them out of the barge. Once they had finished, Radisson stayed behind with the carters on the bank to watch as they stowed the merchandise and towed the barge. The irony was not lost on him that they were using the same technique as the Iroquois did whenever they had to drag their canoes out of the water and past the rapids. To pass the time as they followed the four strong horses that advanced slowly before them, he told the carters how he had helped the Indians in Canada carry their birch-bark canoes along the riverbank in much the same way.

“You're from Canada?” asked the bigger of the two, his enthusiasm surprising Radisson.

“And what do you know about Canada?”

“The woman I work for has a cousin over there.”

For the past fifteen years, the nun who had founded the Ursuline convent in Québec had been sending long letters to her family back home.

“She's always going on about it,” added the carter. “She's completely obsessed.”

It turned out that the lady was a great admirer of her cousin and all her work over in a country her letters described as dangerous and lacking in even the most basic necessities. Since the last worrying letter she had received, she was anxious to find out all she could about New France.

“You have to come meet her. She's never met anyone who's lived over there.”

Without asking Radisson what he thought of his plans, the man had roped him in and was busy preparing his trip to the village. Radisson had no objections, but he feared Touchet would seize the opportunity to leave him behind.

“I'd love to,” Radisson replied. “But my boatman will want to press on. I have to stay with him. I need to get to Paris as quickly as possible.”

“I'll hear nothing of it!” the carter retorted. “Your boatman will stop with us too! The woman I work for will make him an offer he can't refuse! Believe me, he won't want to turn down a piece of business like this. Come on, Hercules. Come on, boy. Faster!”

As he urged his horses forward, the carter—Jean Roussin—began gesticulating over at Touchet. He was going to be making money hand over fist, he shouted. In fact, he was so convincing that, by the time the barge had been towed to a deeper stretch of water, Touchet was ready to drop anchor there and then and pay the lady a visit.

Roussin and his companion Thomas brought their new friends straight to their superior. Along the way, it began to rain heavily and they were soaked by the time they arrived. After parking the carts in the stables, where they would be safe and dry, they ran for shelter in the warmth of the big house.

The widow Guyard welcomed the two strangers with surprise. When Jean Roussin told her the younger of the two had just arrived from Canada, her face lit up and tears welled in her eyes. She looked at Radisson like he was an apparition of the Holy Ghost. Fascinated, she cupped his hands in hers as though he were some kind of marvelous creature. Radisson had no idea what to say to the griefstricken woman. She was in her forties and staring at him with fire in her eyes. Her astonishment passed and she quickly withdrew her hands to put them behind her back. She leaned forward with her head, humbly, as though she had just been indecorous.

“Do come in,” she said. “Come dry yourselves by the fire. And please let me know when you are ready to eat.”

The four men walked through an enormous kitchen, the widow just ahead of them. In one corner, a young servant girl was busy making dough for the next day's bread. Cooking pots hung above a long wooden counter that ran from the door to the fireplace. They huddled around the fire as the widow stirred it back to life, throwing an armful of slim branches down onto it. They went up in flames instantly, crackling noisily. She added a huge hardwood log. The woman reminded Radisson of how his mother had looked after him and how his sister Marguerite took care of him in Trois-Rivières when he stayed with her and her family. Mothers could be such a comfort.

The widow turned around. She only had eyes for Radisson, who was delighted to be the centre of attention. He could tell she was driven by a mix of embarrassment and curiosity.

“You need plenty of courage to live in New France!” she said. “I know that only too well: my cousin writes to me every year. She lives in Québec. She founded the Ursuline convent over there. She's a real saint to put up with everything she has told me about. Her name's Marie, Marie de l'Incarnation. Do you know her?”