The King's Daughter (22 page)

“Quick, children. Go to the house.”

Gansagonas appeared on the doorstep. She was holding a heavy sack of provisions. Wise and confident, she already knew which of the alternatives was preferable.

She set down the sack and went in to prepare another one. In a voice that Simon the despot would not approve of, Jeanne announced, “Limp, I'm taking the family into the cellar. What will you do?”

“I'll stay hidden in the bushes by the water. Anonkade will be coming back from fishing a few hours from now. He and his friend will help us.”

“And the dog?”

Jeanne and Mathurin understood each other at a glance. They could not risk Miraud betraying his masters' hide-out in his eagerness to protect them.

“I'll take the dog with me,” the old hunter decided, his hand on his knife, nodding to his mistress.

Poor Miraud, thought Jeanne. Then an instant later she added, Poor us.

“Quick, children. Follow me. We're going to play hiding in the cellar, like we practised.”

The mother partridge's trick vaguely combined with the Trojan horse strategy had inspired the astute king's daughter to devise a possible way to outwit the enemy.

Until now, the whites had opposed the Iroquois attacks either with a desperate resistance or an even more disastrous retreat. The cellar Simon had dug for his fur pelts had been enlarged, improved and cleaned up by Jeanne and Gansagonas. This unexpected use it had been put to offered a slim chance for safety.

“Will we make a snack like last time?” asked Isabelle. She had pleasant memories of the exercises they had practised many times since their father's departure.

“Yes. Perhaps several.”

“Will we have light?” asked Nicolas anxiously. Since his fall in the ravine, darkness still held danger for him.

“Gansagonas will be there, and so will I. Quickly, climb down.”

She carefully set the turf aside, uncovering the square trap door. A rough ladder plunged into the darkness. Nicolas hesitated. Jeanne gave him a push.

“There's a candle down there and a flint stone. Light it for me as I showed you.”

Very proud, the boy conquered his fear and climbed agilely down the ladder. Isabelle burst into tears.

“Where's Zeanne? She's going to want to come.”

“I'll bring her to you in a little while. Jump.”

Kneeling at the edge of the hole, Jeanne grasped Isabelle by the wrists, swung her into the emptiness and dropped her a foot from the bottom. An instant later, the little girl, who took after her father, began showering her brother with advice as he did his utmost to produce a spark.

It was cold and damp in that low cellar, dug right into the earth. Fur pelts, the relics of Simon's first disastrous expedition before Christmas, were waiting to be packed in bales. An odour of wild beasts filled the confined space.

Gansagonas, the expression on her face carefully impassive, yet with bright eyes, arrived with gourds of water, sacks, blankets and clothing. She disappeared into the cellar without a word. It was the second time she had faced the Iroquois with the children. During the last raid, she had had time to flee into the forest while men burned down the house, scalped her mistress and killed the baby in her arms.

This time she was only too happy to let the determined white woman make the decisions.

Jeanne said, “I'm closing up the trap door. Barricade it from inside. Open it when I knock twice. You know what to give the children.”

Without discussion, Gansagonas pulled the trap door shut. As luck would have it, Nicolas managed to light the candle that very moment. The first minutes would not be too difficult. Jeanne replaced the turf that Simon had artfully cut. No one would guess the hiding place. Now it was time to set the scene Jeanne had planned. With her fertile imagination and sense for the practical, she had considered every aspect of the problem that might arise. Now she would have liked to discuss the plan with Simon. If only she had time to carry it out before the Iroquois arrived.

Jeanne was as active and sure in danger as she was awkward and clumsy in the public eye or in household chores. Like a hurricane unleashed, she was everywhere.

From her trunk, she took the long hair she had cut off the summer before. She ran down to the river and hung it on a branch where it could be easily seen.

With one kick she smashed in the bark canoe and pushed it towards deep water, where it slowly sank. The paddles she threw into the river drifted down the current, turning circles.

“Good luck, Limp,” she called towards the bushes. She felt the old hunter's presence there, though she could not see him. Miraud whimpered. He wanted so much to come to her. As long as there was hope, Mathurin would spare the dog that had become his hunting companion. But you couldn't risk that many lives to save an animal. As soon as he sounded the alarm, he would have to be killed.

Jeanne picked up her skirts in an impatient and characteristic gesture. She galloped towards the house and leaned her musket near the door. She quickly slipped on her “brother's” suit and fastened the belt around her waist; it would scarcely go around her once. Would this baby they'd waited for so long and hoped for so much ever have the chance to see the light of day? She made sure she had everything she needed: the knife Charron had given her, the powder horn, the bag of lead shot.

Jeanne grabbed the container of sea-wolf oil, the lamp fuel she had traded some maple sugar for. She spread the viscous liquid over the table, the floor, under the bed. The beautiful patchwork comforter went to join the grey cape, the wolfskin coat and Zeanne the doll near the door.

Had she forgotten anything? She went through the cabin to check. Oh, yes! The flowered sugar bowl Thérèse de Bretonville had given to Isabelle. It still contained some dry maple sugar that Nicolas had pounded into a powder.

A shot rang out by the river; Mathurin's hopeless battle had begun. The Iroquois had come too soon. She wouldn't have time to carry out her clever plan. Under no pretext would she go near the trap door of the cellar. The mother partridge does not betray her young.

A shadow blocked the light outlined by the door. An Iroquois was there, his face painted, threatening, tomahawk in hand.

He didn't seem to be in a hurry and he was alone. A glance through the window—her beautiful, precious window—assured her of that. A small canoe was drawn up on the bank. The Iroquois always travelled in twos in these craft. Was it this one's companion Mathurin had fired at? Why wasn't he firing any more shots?

All these unanswered questions jostled together in Jeanne's head. On the threshold, the Indian had not moved. He was studying her at length, intrigued by her unexpected reaction. Usually white women screamed, went into hysterics or fainted. This one was eyeing him calmly and walking towards the hearth, without letting go of her sugar bowl.

She bent down, picked up a log with one end still smoking and shook it in the embers to ignite it again. Then she calmly directed it towards the table glistening with oil.

With a low rumble, the fire covered it and reached towards the ceiling. The Iroquois let out a cry of rage and rushed forward, raising his axe. The madwoman had no right to light the fire herself without giving him time to choose his trophies.

The poacher's granddaughter had carried around mustard powder for too many years during her youth not to be ready to use it. Instinctively, with a snap of her wrist, she threw the contents of the sugar bowl in the Indian's face. The large pieces of brown sugar didn't affect him, but the powder that Nicolas had carefully ground with his pestle filled the startled man's eyes. He put both his hands to his face, the same reflex Thierry had had long before. Then that familiar rage took hold of Jeanne at the sight of this brute who dared invade her home and endanger her family.

Her fingers closed around the long handle of the cast-iron frying pan. She raised it, and with all the strength of her anger, crashed it down on the bent head. The Indian collapsed in a heap. The greedy flames licked the walls, reached the other puddles of oil and leaped in their infernal dance.

Jeanne shook herself and ran towards the door before the fire cut off her retreat. On the way she tripped over the pile of clothing she'd thrown there earlier. She grabbed her musket as she kicked the coat, cape, coverlet and doll outside. Possessions were so scarce in New France that everyone was attached to them, even in the gravest danger.

Jeanne glanced around to make sure no other enemy was in sight. Did she have time to get rid of the Iroquois's canoe? That was a necessity, for without it, the scene she'd set would be useless.

The next Iroquois who passed by must see the smoking ruins and the head of hair that would tell the triumphant story of scalpings and murders. They would continue on their way, searching for other prey their brother had not yet reached.

This second trip to the river demanded more of Jeanne than all her previous acts. She was drained of all her rage and courage. She had but one thought: to dive into the safety of the cellar. For an instant she hesitated.

Yet finally she ran towards the water. A vigorous push sent the light canoe into the midst of the current, and it went off on its own, carried away on the river swollen by the spring thaw.

Very softly she called, “Mathurin?”

No one answered. She dashed into the bushes where the trapper had been hiding without even the most elementary caution. The courageous mother was no more than an automaton, and it was better that way. With no horror, no reaction, she contemplated the body of the dog with its throat slit at her feet. Farther away was an Indian who must have been killed almost at point-blank range by Limp, since his tomahawk had had time to split open the old coureur de bois's bald head.

Jeanne let the branches close again over the spectacle that she would relive in her nightmares. She raced back towards the house that was blazing briskly, her beautiful chateau in the forest. With a sharp crack, the window shattered.

Unfolding the comforter, she piled up the clothes, Zeanne and even the cat that had scampered over to her, returning from a fruitful hunt.

Two sharp knocks. The trap door opened. The candle flickered. It wasn't so cold; the bodies huddled together warmed the shelter. On the other hand, the atmosphere was already heavy. Would the air holes the two women had provided be sufficient? Jeanne had prescribed a strong dose of paregoric that Gansagonas prepared for the children. They had swallowed it and were now sleeping soundly.

They had to be spared the horror of waiting in the darkness; they must not be given the chance to cry or raise their voices.

Carefully, Jeanne lowered the trap door. The turf was in its proper place. In the “rehearsals,” it fit perfectly with the grass around it.

“Grandfather, take care of everything for me. You can see it from up there. Hide us well.”

Jeanne quickly told her Huron companion about the latest events. Together they took silent inventory of their riches. The water would have to be rationed.

The children were stretched out on the unrolled furs, and Jeanne covered them with her cape. Then she wrapped the wolfskin coat around her; if she survived, her baby should not be made to suffer from her carelessness. She smiled at the tardiness of her concern.

Jeanne stretched out next to the children, placed the flint stone and her musket beside her and stuck her dagger into the earthen floor as Simon did. The food was piled close by and the water was not far. A final wave of her hand to Gansagonas; the Indian nodded her head. Then Jeanne blew out the candle. Like a presence, the darkness surrounded and crushed them. The interminable vigil began. Fortunately the children were sleeping, and as soon as they woke up, they would be given something to eat and another potion to swallow. The cat purred at Jeanne's feet, the only symbol of life in that frigid tomb.

“Grandfather, Mother Berthelet, François, I love you very much, but don't expect me right away, for pity's sake. I still have so many things to do, so many people to love. Simon, where are you? Simon, if you come to my aid, watch out for the Iroquois. What good would it do for me to get out of here alive if you're not waiting for me in the sunshine?

“Simon, our son will have your eyes. We'll build our house again. Simon, we'll be happy. I want us to be happy.”

36

INCH BY INCH
, very carefully, the trap door was lifted. It was light. The time was still not right.

Silence. Waiting. Her straining ears heard only silence and more silence. The cat's purring had become maddening. It echoed and reverberated and seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Was it better to sleep and dream, or to stay awake and imagine? Was it time for a new attempt? A breath of fresh air cautiously filtered in and hit her full in the face, making her dizzy, almost forcing her to let go of the ladder. Was it dark, or did her eyes, too accustomed to blackness, no longer know how to see?

Carried by the wind, the acrid odour of the fire caught in her throat.

By lifting the trap door, she could see in front and to the sides. Perhaps the enemy was behind, crouching there for hours, waiting with the infinite patience of the Indian for the victim to fall into his trap. So much the worse. She had to know.

Three days and as many nights had passed, maybe more. She had to get a change of scenery; she had to breathe. If necessary, she would dive back into the shadows.

Silence. Night noises. The cicadas, the frogs. The soft moon silvered the foot of the trees.

No more house before her. Blackened beams in the sky. The chimney standing. Simon's chimneys don't fall down. They remain, like monuments to bereavements. They will have to sweep all that, rebuild, live again in the light.

Were there carefree people who dared to go out into the sunlight, to lift their voices, to laugh in its brightness?

The raised trap door allowed young Madame de Rouville to come out, little belly and all. Nothing behind? Nothing in front?