CHAPTER VI.
BATEESE.
Next morning Barboux and Menehwehna held a long colloquy aft, but intones so low that John could not catch a word. By and by Muskingonwas called into council, and lastly le Chameau.
The two Indians were arguing against some proposal of the sergeant's,which by the way they pointed and traced imaginary maps with theirfingers, spreading their palms apart to indicate distances, plainlyturned on a point of geography. Le Chameau's opinion seemed tosettle the dispute in the sergeant's favour. Coming that afternoonto the mouth of a tributary stream on the left bank he headed thecanoe for it without a word, and at once the paddles were busy,forcing her against the rapid current.
Then followed days during which, though reason might prove that inthe river he held an infallible clue, John's senses lost themselvesin the forest maze. It overlapped and closed upon him, folding himdeeper and illimitably deeper. On the Richelieu he had played withthoughts of escape, noting how the canoe lagged behind its convoy,and speculating on the Indians' goodwill--faint speculations, since(without reckoning his own raw wound) McQuarters was almost too weakto stir as yet, and to abandon him would be a scurvy trick. So hehad put aside his unformed plans, which at the best had been littlebetter than hopes; and now the wilderness oppressed and smothered andburied them out of recollection.
The _voyageurs_ made tedious progress; for almost at once they cameto a chain of rapids around which the canoe had to be ported.The Indians toiled steadily, and le Chameau too, stripped to thewaist and sweating; and by the end of the day each man carried a darkred weal on one shoulder, sunk in the flesh by the canoe's weight.John could walk, but was powerless to help, and McQuarters had to belifted and carried with the baggage. Barboux confined himself toswearing and jeering at le Chameau's naked back--_diable de torse_,as he proclaimed it. The man was getting past endurance.
On the second day he called a halt, left le Chameau in charge of thecamp and the prisoners, and went off with the Indians in search of amoose, whose lowing call had twice echoed through the woods duringthe night and been answered by Menehwehna on his birch-horn.The forest swallowed them, and a blessed relief fell on the camp--nomore oaths and gibes for a while, but rest and green shade and themurmur of the rapids below.
After the noon-day meal the hunchback stretched himself luxuriouslyand began to converse. He was explaining the situation with the helpof three twigs, which he laid in the form of a triangle--two longsides and a short base.
"_Voyons_, this long one will be the Richelieu and that other theSt. Lawrence; and here"--he put his finger near the base--"here isMontreal. The sergeant knows what he is about. Those other boats,look you, will go around so--" He traced their course around theapex very slowly. "Whereas _we_--!" A quick stroke of the fingeracross the base filled up the sentence, and the little man smiledtriumphantly.
"I see," said John, picking up the short twig and bending it into anarch, "we are now climbing up this side of the slope, eh? And on theother there will likewise be a river?"
The boatman nodded. "A hard way to find, m'sieur. But have no fear.I have travelled it."
"Assuredly I have no fear with you, M.--"
"Guyon, m'sieur--Jean Bateese Guyon. This M. Barboux is a merryfellow--il ne peut pas se passer de ses enjouements. But I was notborn like this." And here he touched his shoulder very simply andgravely.
"It was an accident then, M. Guyon?"
"An accident--oh, yes, be assured it was an accident." A flushshowed on the little man's cheek, and his speech on a sudden becamevery rapid. "But as we were saying, I know the trail across yonder;and my brother Dominique he knows it even better. I wish we may seeDominique, m'sieur; there is no such _voyageur_ from Quebec up toMichilimackinac, aye or beyond! He has been down the Cascades bynight, himself only; it was when I had my--my accident, and he mustgo to fetch a surgeon. All along the river it is talked of yet.But it is nothing to boast of, for the hand of God must have beenupon him. And as good as he is brave!"
"And where is your brother Dominique just now?"
"He will be at home, m'sieur. Soon they will be carrying the harvestat Boisveyrac, and he is now the seigneur's farmer. He will beworrying himself over the harvest, for Dominique takes things toheart, both of this world and the next; whereas--I am a goodCatholic, I hope--but these things do not trouble me. It seems thereis no time to be troubled." Bateese looked up shyly, with a blushlike a girl's. "M'sieur may be able to tell me--or, maybe, he willthink it foolish. This love of women, now?"
"Proceed, M. Guyon."
"Ah, you believe in it! When the sergeant begins his talk--c'estbien sale, is it not? But that is not the sort I mean. Well,Dominique is in love, and it brings him no happiness. He can neverhave what he wants, nor would it be right, and he knows it; butnevertheless he goes on craving for it and takes no pleasure in lifefor the want of it. I look at him, wondering. Then I say to myself,'Bateese, when le bon Dieu broke you in pieces He was not unkind.Your heart is cracked and cannot hold love, like your brother's; butwhat of that, while God is pouring love into it all day long andnever ceases? You are ugly, and no maid will ever want you for ahusband; therefore you are lucky who cannot store away desire forthis or that one, like poor Dominique, who goes about aching and fitto burst. You go singing _a la claire fontaine_, which is full ofunhappiness and longing, but all the while you are happy enough.'Indeed, that is the truth, monsieur. I study this love ofDominique's, which makes him miserable; but I cannot judge it.I see that it brings pain to men."
"But delight also, my friend."
"And delight also--that is understood. M'sieur is, perhaps, in love?Or has been?"
"No, Bateese; not yet."
"But you will; with that face it is certain. Now shall I tell you?--to my guessing this love of women is like an untried rapid.Something smiles ahead for you, and you push for it and _voyez!_ in amoment down you go, fifteen miles an hour and the world spinning; andat the bottom of the fall, if the woman be good, sweet is the journeyand you wonder, looking back from smooth water, down what shelves youwere swept to her. That, I say, is what I suppose this love to be;but for myself I shall never try it. Since le bon Dieu broke thepitcher its pieces are scattered all over me, within; they holdnothing, but there they lie shining in their useless fashion."
"Not useless, perhaps, Bateese."
"In their useless fashion," he persisted. "They will smile and begay at the sight of a pretty girl, or at the wild creatures in thewoods yonder, or at the thoughts in a song, or for no better reasonthan that the day is bright and the air warm. But they can storenothing. It is the same with religion, monsieur, and with affairs ofState; neither troubles my head. Dominique is devout, for example;and Father Launoy comes to talk with him, which makes him gloomy.The reverend Father just hears my sins and lets me go; he knows wellenough that Bateese does not count. And then he and Dominique sitand talk politics by the hour. The Father declares that all theEnglish are devils, and that anyone who fights for the Holy Churchand is killed by them will rise again the third day."
John laughed aloud this time.
"I too think the reverend Father must be making some mistake," saidBateese gravely. "No doubt he has been misinformed."
"No doubt. For suppose now that I were a devil?"
"Oh, m'sieur," Bateese expostulated. "_Ca serait bien dommage!_But I hope, in any case, God would pardon me for talking with you,seeing that to contain anything, even hatred, is beyond me."
"Shall I tell you what I think, Bateese? I think we are all pitchersand perhaps made to be broken. Ten days ago I was brimful ofambitions; someone--le bon Dieu, or General Abercromby--has toppledme over and spilt them all; and here I lie on my side, not broken,but full of emptiness."
"Heh, heh--'full of emptiness'!" chuckled Bateese, to whom the phrasewas new.
"It may be that in time someone will set me up again and pour into mewine of another sort. I hope for this, because it is painful to lieup
set and empty; and I do not wish to be broken, for that must beeven more painful--at the time, eh?"
Bateese glanced up, with a twitch of remembered pain.
"Indeed, m'sieur, it hurt--at the time."
"But afterwards--when the pieces have no more trouble, being releasedfrom pride--the pride of being a pitcher! Is it useless they are asthey lie upturned, reflecting--what? My friend, if we only knew thiswe might discover that now, when it can no longer store up wine foritself, the pitcher is at last serving an end it was made for."
The little hunchback glanced up again quickly. "You are talking formy sake, monsieur, not for yourself! At your age I too could bemelancholy for amusement. Ah, pardon," for John had blushed hotly."Do I not know why you said it? Am I not grateful?"
He held out his hand. His eyes were shining.