CHAPTER XV THE BITTER WINTER OF CANADA
The Canadian winter, that is now a time of so much animation and gayety in the city of Quebec, proved a season of terror, starvation, sickness, and death to the handful of Frenchmen left by Champlain to guard his infant settlement. At its beginning they recklessly squandered their stores, eating and drinking with no thought of the morrow. If Champlain had been with them he would have taught them differently, for he had already passed several winters in the country and knew their bitter meaning. But, lacking his wise guidance, they indulged in riotous living until suddenly they came face to face with famine. The winter was not more than half spent when this happened, and they began to suffer from hunger.
Now that it was too late for any real good, Chauvin seized every particle of food that remained, locked it up, and doled it out to his men in such meagre allowance as barely served to keep life in their shivering bodies. He also sent them into the woods to hunt, or to dig roots and groundnuts, with which to help out their scanty fare. He had expected to be able to purchase all the provisions he needed from Indians, who, during the summer, had brought game to the fort in abundance, but now not a native was to be seen except a few poor wretches who came empty-handed and as beggars.
Unlike their brethren of the south, who cultivated fields and stored harvests for the winter, the improvident dwellers of that region lived wholly by hunting, feasting while game was plentiful and starving when it was gone.
In all this time no one within the limits of that wretched fort suffered as did the son of Longfeather. From the day that he was thrust into his prison he was not allowed to leave it for a breath of outside air, or a glimpse of the freedom for which his soul longed, until it seemed as though he would rather die than remain within those hated walls another minute.
And with it all he had no idea why he was thus confined or what fate was in store for him. Only, as days, weeks, and months passed, he became more and more certain that he was to have no release save only by death itself. But one thing kept him from seeking this instead of waiting for it, and that was the friendship of the young Indian who, wounded and helpless, had been brought to him during the first hour of his imprisonment. Tasquanto's recovery was slow, and for many weeks he depended upon Nahma for everything. It did not take long for these two, drawn to each other by the bonds of race and a common misfortune, to cement a friendship, and swear that they would either gain freedom or perish together.
Although they could not plan an escape from their closely guarded prison and must wait for chance to aid them, they spent hours in discussing the course to be pursued if ever they got beyond those hated walls.
"We must make all haste to cross the river," said Tasquanto, "for the Hurons would quickly kill us if we remained on this side. If it is frozen that will be easy. If not, we must steal one of the clumsy boats of these awkward white men, who make everything bigger and heavier than is needful. On the other side we will conceal ourselves until we can build a canoe, and then we will go southward. Beyond that I cannot see, for if we go to the country of thy people, they will kill me; while it would be dangerous for thee, an Iroquois, to be found in my country."
"But I am not of the Iroquois," protested Nahma.
"Not of the Iroquois! Who, then, are thy people?"
"That I know not. I was found among the Maquas, who are a tribe of the Iroquois, sorely wounded and without memory of aught that had ever happened before that time. Since then I have been an Iroquois by adoption, but it is certain that I am not one by birth."
This statement so changed the aspect of affairs that it was agreed they should travel towards the country of the Abenakis in case an escape could be effected. It also afforded a fruitful topic of speculation, and thus helped pass the weary hours.
Finally, the time came when Tasquanto was so fully recovered that he was sent out to hunt food for the hungry garrison, and during the day Nahma was left alone, since only at night was his companion allowed to rejoin him. Chauvin realized that if both were sent into the woods they would at once make good their escape; while, from the friendship he had noted between them, he felt assured that Tasquanto would return to his comrade so long as the latter was held. Nor did he dare allow Nahma to escape while there was a chance of Champlain's return.
So our poor lad shivered and starved in his hated prison-house, finding his only occupation in making snow-shoes from materials furnished by Tasquanto. He designed them for his own use, but they were taken from him by his guards as fast as completed, so that in the end he had nothing to show for his labors. One night a great grief befell him; Tasquanto failed to appear at the usual hour, nor did he come during the night, though Nahma watched and waited for him until morning. He asked eager questions of the guard who brought his miserable breakfast, but the man refused to answer, and all that day our lad sat in a lethargy of despair, careless whether he lived or died.
The following night was one of furious storm and bitter cold. The north wind roaring through the bending forest shrieked and howled in savage glee as it struck the forlorn little outpost of white men. It leaped down the wide-throated chimneys and scattered their fires. It slammed shutters and doors, while if any ventured abroad, it blinded and choked them with stinging volleys of snowdrift. So fierce and deadly was it that even military discipline came to an end, and all sentries were permitted to abandon their posts.
Nahma sat alone in the dark, numbed and nearly perished with the cold, for he had burned up the last bit of fuel brought him two days earlier by Tasquanto, and none had been supplied since. In the many voices of the storm, now shrill and clamorous, then deep and menacing, and again filled with weird moanings that died in long-drawn sighs, he heard the spirits of the dead, the Okis of another world, calling to him, and bidding him share their wild freedom. He knew that he had but to yield to the drowsiness already overpowering him, and the deadly cold would speedily release him from all earthly prisons. Perhaps Tasquanto's spirit was among those now calling; yes, he was sure of it, for he recognized his friend's voice. "Massasoit," it called, "Massasoit, wake up! It is I, Tasquanto, thy brother. Wake up and come to me."
The cry was agonized in its intensity, and after a little even Nahma's dulling senses recognized that it was uttered by human lips. At the same time he felt that the storm was beating on his face, and struggling weakly to his feet, he gained the window through which it came. Its shutter was wide open, and beyond its bars stood Tasquanto speaking to him.
"I thought thee dead, my brother, for I have called many times without answer," said Tasquanto, as he became aware that his friend was at hand.
"And I believed thy voice to be that of thy spirit, for I also thought thee gone to the place of the dead," replied Nahma. "Why have you remained away from me these many hours?"
"It is because they drove me from the gate, saying that my hunting was of no avail, and that I should not longer eat of their stores. But I could not go, my brother, without word with thee, and now has the storm-god given me a chance for speaking. If it were not for these bars we could do more than speak, for those who kept guard have been driven to shelter, and there is none to hinder us from going away together. But they may not be broken, and so we must wait until other means are found for thy release. But fear not that I will desert thee. I have found a way for passing the wall, and will come to this place whenever it may be done without notice. In the mean time I will prepare for our flight. Already have I built a lodge in a safe place beyond the river, and——"
Here Tasquanto's words were suddenly interrupted, and the heavy shutter was slammed to as though by a fierce gust of wind. Then the door was flung open and the faint gleam of a horn lantern illumined the interior.
A little earlier on that same evening Chauvin, while talking with one of his officers concerning Champlain and his unexplained absence, had been reminded of the young Indian whom the governor had consigned to his care, but to whom he had not given a thought in many days. Now he inquired carelessly whether he were alive or dead.
"I know not," replied the officer, who, following his chief's example, had not concerned himself about the fate of so insignificant a being as a captive Indian.
"And why do you not know?" cried Chauvin, with a sudden burst of petulant rage. "It is your duty to know, and to be ready with instant report concerning everything taking place within the walls of Quebec. Do you think because the governor chooses to absent himself for a while that no one is left here to maintain his authority? By the saints, monsieur, I will give you cause to remember that Pierre Chauvin is not to be trifled with, and that when he asks a question he expects it to be promptly answered. Go, then, at once, sir, and inform yourself by personal observation of the condition of this prisoner, or haply you may find yourself in his place."
Without daring to reply, the bewildered officer bowed and left the room. Thus it happened that, accompanied by a soldier whom he had summoned to attend him, he came to Nahma's prison-house in time to interrupt the conversation between him and Tasquanto and frighten the latter into a precipitate retreat.
Finding, to his satisfaction, that the prisoner was still alive, the officer demanded of the soldier why, in such weather, he was kept without fire.
The soldier replied that it had been left to the other Indian to provide the guard-house with fuel; whereupon his superior passed out to him the rating he himself had received from Chauvin.
"And so, canaille, you leave your duties to be performed by a miserable skulking savage. A pretty state of affairs in a king's fortress. Bring wood at once, sir, and fire, also fetch something in the way of food, for this wretch looks like to die of starvation, a thing that may not be allowed of the governor's own prisoner, even though he be a heathen."
So on that night of bitter tempest not only were Nahma's spirits raised by a new hope, but the horrors of freezing and starvation that had threatened his life were sensibly mitigated. Two days later came the first word received from Champlain since his hurried departure for Tadousac four months earlier.