Adventures of Radisson (25 page)

At the sound of his name, Oreanoué's brother came in round the back of the house and sat down with them. Orinha's heart exploded with surprise and panic. But he kept his composure.

“We'll bring Shononses too,” he managed to add, between two sharp breaths.

“If you like, Shononses will come too, brother. We'll be a team, just like before.”

Orinha stood up to choose an arrow at random, then walked to the door, looking nervously from side to side.

“I must go, Ganaha. See you!”

“Come back whenever you want, brother. You are always welcome here.”

“Be happy, the pair of you!”

Orinha hurried to the village gate, turning around more than once to make sure that no one was following him. Everything was fine. The coast was clear. Once outside the village, he paused for a moment to make certain that he had his precious knife, a tomahawk, bow and arrows, and musket. He'd taken nothing to eat, lest people think he was trying to run away should he be captured again. Orinha then snapped Ganaha's arrow, keeping only the head, which he slipped into his knife sheath, along with the tobacco, the corn, and Conharassan's hair and bracelet. Before disappearing deep into the woods, he looked back one last time. It was over. Moving rapidly, he headed for Fort Orange.

O
RINHA QUICKLY
left the trail that led to Rensselaerwyck and cut through the woods. The going would be tougher but safer, since there was less risk of encountering Iroquois off to trade with the Dutch. He moved as fast as he could and soon discarded his bow and arrows. They were catching on the branches and slowing him down. He bounded over fallen trees, hacked his way through brushwood, barged on through bushes, scratching his face and arms, and ripping his clothing as he went, but he did not slow down. The sun was his guide. On he ran for a long time. When he could run no more, he slowed to a walk. But, without fail, images of torture quickly resurfaced and he began to run again, as frenetically as before. His musket was weighing him down and he cast it away. Reaching Rensselaerwyck as fast as he could was all that mattered. He clutched the eagle head knife in one hand to give him strength and wielded his tomahawk with the other to hack his way through the vegetation that blocked his path to freedom. From time to time he paused, panting, exhausted, took his bearings from the setting sun, and then set off again.

His legs were weak, his lungs on fire, his arms bleeding; the approaching night meant nothing. His will to live drove him on. The Iroquois in him kept him moving. Courage and self-denial, strength and endurance— all the qualities he'd learned from his Iroquois brothers were leading him to a new world. But now he was struggling to make any progress at all. The moon, pale and hesitant, had replaced the sun. Orinha tripped over something he had not seen and fell flat on the ground. Unable to get up, he crawled over to a huge, protective tree stump and curled up against it, clinging tightly to the handle of his hope-filled knife. He fell into a deep sleep.

The cold awoke him as the first glimmer of day lit up the immense forest. Orinha was hungry enough to eat a bear. He hurt all over. But suddenly the thought of red-hot irons against his skin had him leaping to his feet. He set out at top speed toward Fort Orange, thinking about his family; no doubt they would be worried about him. Perhaps they'd already started to look for him. No doubt Kiwagé would be calling him a traitor and demanding he be executed. There wasn't a minute to lose. Quick! Run to Fort Orange. Quicker than that! He would fling himself at the governor's feet and remind him of his promise. He would beg for his salvation. He leaped! He jumped! He stumbled! Orinha picked himself up and kept on going. Fatigue was a caress compared to torture. Exhaustion was a soothing balm compared to death.

At the end of that second frantic day, in the half-light that had come over the forest as the sun went down, Orinha at last heard the sound of an axe in the distance. He drew closer, and could make out through the sparse fall leaves a Dutchman cutting down a tree. Orinha inched closer, stealthily, unsure, happy, undecided. Could he trust a man he had never seen before? Should he continue on to the fort? Was this stranger his saviour or the traitor who would ruin all his efforts? Orinha did not have the strength to go on. At this rate he might never reach the fort, and the Iroquois would perhaps catch up with him that same night or early the next morning. So, shaking with hunger and fatigue, he shouted out to the Dutchman:

“Hullo there!”

The man stopped what he was doing and peered into the woods, where he saw an Iroquois gesturing at him wildly. Although he seemed harmless enough, he had an odd look about him. The Dutchman motioned for him to come closer, gripping his axe, ready to defend himself. But the thought of the furs he might be able to trade flashed through his mind. That was certainly worth a risk or two. So, Orinha approached, distrustful himself, holding no weapon, arms outstretched in a sign of friendship. In no more than a few seconds, looks were exchanged and the two men gained a little confidence in each other. Orinha made it clear with gestures that he was prepared to trade pelts, repeating the word “beaver” in Iroquois and in French. Then he pointed to the Dutchman's home. The man agreed to bring him in. But Orinha took fright again and first wanted to make sure there were no Iroquois there, gesturing again and again to make himself understood. The Dutchman suspected what he might be asking and shook his head a number of times. Completely worn out, Orinha followed him into his home. Come what may.

The Dutchman's wife gave the Iroquois something to eat, even though he had the look of a hunted animal and his scratched face and arms inspired more fear than confidence. He looked exhausted, and devoured everything she put in front of him. Orinha regained a little of his strength and somehow got the couple to understand that he had an urgent message for the governor of Fort Orange. This half-reassured them. Orinha asked for something to write with and the man, who couldn't quite believe it, brought him a quill, ink, and paper because, as good Protestants, they could read the Bible and write as well. They were fascinated to see the Iroquois scribble a few words: “Sir, I am the Frenchman you wished to free from the Iroquois. I have escaped. I am hiding in the home of the man who brought you this message. Please set me free before my brothers kill me! Radisson.” Then he handed the scrap of paper to the Dutchman and implored him to take it to the governor immediately.

Tempted by what might be in it for him, the man agreed to leave without delay, even though night had fallen. His wife, reassured by the fact that Orinha knew how to write and had a message for the governor himself, was soon trying to soothe him, in the hopes of a better trade. But Orinha heard Iroquois chanting in the distance and was filled with terror. He managed to get the woman to understand that his brothers would kill him if they found him there, because he had chosen to live with the Dutch rather than with them. She helped him hide under the sacks of corn she and her husband had stored away for the winter, at the back of their only room. Orinha hid there, shaking with fear until the man of the house returned with three companions. Jean, the French lieutenant, was one of them. He brought clothes so they could disguise Orinha as a Dutchman. Orinha got dressed in no time, then the four of them hurried off to the fort. They arrived safe and sound, just before dawn.

A NEW LIFE


T
HE NEXT DAY
, Radisson met the governor of Fort Orange in the apartments that had so impressed him the first time. This time around, he felt more at home there, and safe. But he was still not entirely over his anxiety, his frantic flight, or his sudden decision to run away from the Iroquois and save his life. His memories of Ganaha, Katari, Conharassan, and so many other companions were still intense.

What's more, Radisson felt a little ashamed to be standing in front of the governor, who had sized up the situation so well. He was ashamed of being naïve and proud when he had dismissed out of hand the governor's offer to free him right there and then. The two men stood face to face. Radisson did not dare speak first; the governor finally broke the silence.

“I am happy to see you again safe and sound,” he said. “I am glad you saw sense, for any foreigner living with the Iroquois is taking a great risk. You never know what mood they're going to be in, what dream they're going to listen to next. The Iroquois are so bellicose and unpredictable that just about anything can happen. My predecessors learned that at their cost.”

Radisson said nothing. He knew the governor was right. But he was still very much attached to the ways of the Iroquois, particularly the dreams that had just guided him to Rensselaerwyck. True, a flash of reason had convinced him to come back to his own culture, but he was still not used to it. He had so enjoyed his life with the Iroquois at times that he was reluctant to accept what Orlaer was saying. But he savoured every second of silence in this sumptuous room, in this apartment protected by solid stone walls, beneath a heavy plank roof, furnished with so many sophisticated objects, each a sign of superior European know-how. Radisson had no doubt that the spirit of the eagle had led him to the right place. He was happy and relieved to have made the right decision. All that remained was to adapt to his new life, once again; to adapt to the new life that had once been his own.

“Yesterday,” the governor continued, “I redeemed a Jesuit priest the Iroquois captured on the St. Lawrence. Did you know?” Radisson shook his head. “He's a Frenchman like you. I didn't free him because of any fondness for the Jesuits, far from it, but from time to time the Iroquois capture them, and I don't think twice about buying their freedom. These soldiers of the pope are worth it. They're out here risking their lives, preaching the Gospel to the Wildmen in hostile lands. I'll introduce you. I'm sure you'll get along famously. He is still rather upset by the whole episode. They tortured him. You'll never hear him say he enjoyed his time with the Iroquois, as you told me you did. I'm sure you'll have plenty to talk about.”

Radisson kept his silence for the moment, unable to find common ground between his affection for the Iroquois and the distant attitude of the governor, who had had an entirely different story when the Iroquois met with him for trade. Nevertheless, he was happy he would soon have the chance to meet a Frenchman who had lived in New France— if his mother tongue ever came back to him. Because, although Radisson understood every word the governor said, his speech was still a prisoner. It was as though it had been put on hold, bound to his thoughts. Orlaer tired of waiting for Radisson's reply and returned to sit behind his desk.

“I'll make both of you the same offer,” he announced. “The navigation season is nearing an end. Since I don't intend on keeping either of you here for the winter— that would be unwise —I suggest you both board the boat that leaves Rensselaerwyck for Manhattan the day after tomorrow. You will remain in the hold well out of the Iroquois' sight, in case they get it into their heads to capture you again. Once you reach Manhattan, you will make your way to Holland by merchant ship. I will pay for your passage that far. After that, you will have to get by on your own. I am not in the least bit worried about the Jesuit: those people have friends everywhere, enemies too. But you are from Paris; I'm not sure about you. Try to get along with him. Perhaps he will help you get back to Paris, where you still have family, I imagine. If the Jesuits are half as charitable as they claim, it's the least he can do for you. What do you say?”

Radisson nodded slightly to thank the governor. Then he replied:

“I would have preferred to go straight to New France, Governor. But I accept your offer.”

“No boats go to New France this late in the season,” Orlaer replied. “There is too much ice on the river. And don't even think about travelling by land! Much too dangerous. You'd either be captured again or you'd die of cold and exhaustion. Don't you want to see your family again?”

“My two sisters are in Trois-Rivières,” replied Radisson, “and my father has disappeared. Only my mother still lives in Paris. I will go back to her. I am very grateful to you, Governor.”

“Excellent. Then that is how we shall proceed. Jean will take care of you now. I have work to do.”

Radisson wanted to pay back his debt to the governor, and made him an offer.

“I would like to give you my tomahawk to thank you for saving my life. It's all I have.”

“Keep your tomahawk, young man! I have no need of it, and I will not accept a thing in return for your liberty. You cost me nothing. Unlike that Jesuit. He cost me a pretty penny. I am glad you made the right decision. Glad, too, that I was able to deliver you from the Iroquois. That is all I need.”

The governor got up to open the door. The conversation was over.

“Jean will give you all you need. He will also introduce you to the Jesuit. God keep you, young man.”

RADISSON WAS NOW DRESSED
in a shirt, pants, jacket, hat, and clogs. He had been transformed into a European, from head to toe. Jean introduced him to Father Joseph Poncet, who had arrived in New France while Radisson was off fighting the Erie. The Iroquois kidnapped him while he was travelling between Québec and Montréal with a group of Algonquins. Father Poncet had spent three months in a Mohawk village that Radisson had never heard of. He had been deeply scarred by his stay there. He still wore the same robe he had been wearing when he was captured. He hadn't taken it off since. Though it was now threadbare and torn in places, it was precious to Poncet. He even refused to wear the Dutch clothes the governor offered him, as though the robe protected him, as though it proved he was still someone.

Radisson and Poncet hid in the cook's bedroom, on the first floor of the bastion, where the governor and five officers from the garrison slept. The two Frenchmen got to know each other as they waited for the boat that would take them to Manhattan. Poncet was eager to tell Radisson all about the torture he had suffered. He poured his heart out, seemingly bringing relief to the torments that haunted him still. His eyes were horrified, white with fear, as he showed Radisson where the Iroquois hacked off the index finger on his left hand. It was the only real torture he had endured. It had lasted for only a few hours, so as not to anger the powerful spirits the French sorcerers claimed to follow. But Poncet was still traumatized. He had still not recovered from the ordeal of his brief detention. It was as though by losing a finger, his freedom, and his role as a missionary, he had also lost all courage, all dignity, all meaning in his life.

Poncet had come to New France to convert the Indians, to bring them eternal salvation. But he never was able to achieve the objective he had set for himself as he prepared for the journey in the monasteries of France. He kept singing the praises of the governor, who hadn't thought twice about purchasing his freedom when an old woman came to Fort Orange and used him to pay for goods.

Radisson told him of his own torture, which was much longer and more terrible, even though it had left no lasting scars. For the moment, Radisson did not dare tell the Jesuit of the extent to which he fitted into Iroquois life, to the point where he had fought by their side. He did not think Poncet would understand.

They spend the first night together alone— the cook was avoiding them —and Radisson could barely sleep. He felt partly relieved at describing his torture, but overwhelmed by so many emotions and questions. All Poncet's talk had brought his culture and values to the forefront of his mind, suddenly reducing his experience of Iroquois culture to one of cruelty and pain. He felt the need to say more, to clear his mind. Radisson realized he had killed. Among his victims was young Serontatié whom he would never forget— and who had completely changed his destiny.

The next morning, remembering that priests had the power to forgive sins, Radisson finally overcame his apprehension and asked Father Poncet to hear his confession.

“I have so many things to be forgiven for, Father,” he told him.

Poncet, who was already sympathetic to the young man, found in the call of a lost sheep a little of his dignity as a man of God. He perked up immediately. He felt flattered, almost rewarded, and joyfully agreed to grant the sacrament given to him by the Holy Church after years of study.

“I am listening, my son,” he replied, joining his hands together. “Kneel down at my feet and confess without fear, for God our merciful Father hears you through me.”

What was happening? Why did Radisson suddenly feel the need to wash his conscience clean? He could not explain it. But a barrier had given way inside him, a barrier raised long ago to allow him to live a normal life with the Iroquois. It all came out at once, everything since he was captured: the guilt he felt over his friends' death, the encounter with Negamabat and Serontatié's murder, the number of Erie he killed. He asked for forgiveness for all his sins, which he bitterly regretted. He sobbed at the feet of the stunned priest.

Poncet could not get over the disconcerting confession. He, too, was moved to tears upon hearing the ordeals of the poor young Frenchman. Fate had been so cruel to him.

“Forgive me, Father,” Radisson begged. “Please forgive me.”

Father Poncet felt a lump in his throat. He could see how fully Radisson had lived as an Iroquois, astonished to see the lengths to which the young man had gone to be accepted by a group that the priest had never understood.

“Do you regret your actions?” he asked finally, hesitantly.

“Oh yes, Father, I regret them! I wish no one had ever died through my own fault, or by my hand. Forgive me; please forgive me. I didn't want them to die!”

Poncet took a deep breath. He had found the purpose of his mission in Canada and his vocation as a priest. He said to Radisson in a more assured voice, in a more solemn tone:

“God forgives you, my son. Of that there is no doubt. By the powers vested in me, in the name of God the Father, I absolve you of your sins. Your sins are now forgiven. Go in peace, my son, and sin no more.”

THE NEXT MORNING
Radisson felt better, calmer. He better understood the change in life he was again experiencing. For his part, Father Poncet was beginning to realize just how exceptional an experience Radisson's time among the Iroquois had been. As they shared breakfast, the Jesuit asked the young Frenchman, the young,
wild
Frenchman: