Nangotook’s prophecy was correct. Another northeaster was upon them, not quite so violent as the one they had passed through a short time before, but even more long continued. Four days, the cold, driving storm of rain, wind, sleet and snow lasted, with never a long enough lull to let the waves, that dashed furiously the length of the big, open bay, subside so a canoe could be launched. It was a time of misery for the three wanderers. They had no blankets or furs for covering, but could only burrow down among evergreen branches to keep out the bitter cold. Jean did not even have a coat, and his shirt, like Ronald’s, was worn and ragged. Neither boy had a change of clothing left. Their moccasins were in rags, and they had no deerskin to make new. Fuel was plenty, but hard to get in the icy storm, and slow to dry so it would burn well enough to give off anything but smoke.
Their greatest misery, however, was due to lack of food. If there were any animals in that part of Minong, they kept to their holes and dens. It was impossible to go out in the canoe, and fishing from the shore brought little result. Once when the storm lulled slightly, Nangotook and Ronald tried to reach the stream where the boys had caught the trout, but before they had fought their way through snow and wind for half a mile, the storm came on again with such violence that they were obliged to turn back. In the quieter intervals they sought for anything eatable that the woods near their wigwam afforded, digging through the frozen snow for roots, picking every nut and seed and dried berry that remained on the bushes, and even stripping the tender inner bark of willows and birches and chewing it. To ease his hunger, Nangotook smoked incessantly. He was out of tobacco, but used bearberry leaves and willow bark in his pipe. He spent most of his time, when compelled by the storm to remain within the lodge, making new bows and arrows and twisting stout cord from the inner bark of the white cedar to weave into a fishing net. In this work the boys joined him.
They attempted to forget their suffering in talk. Jean told all the strange French-Canadian tales and sang all the songs he could remember, from “Marlborough Has Gone to War,”
“Malbrouk se’n va-t-en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,”
a song brought from old France many years before, to the purely Canadian “Petit Rocher de la Haute Montagne.”
The two lads had heard the latter song many times and were familiar with its story, but they had never felt the tragedy of it so strongly before. It is the death lament of the brave Cadieux, voyageur, trader and interpreter. Cadieux was living with his Algonquin wife and others of her tribe at the Portage of Sept-chutes, or Seven Falls, on the Ottawa River, when news arrived of the approach of a party of Iroquois. The Iroquois would certainly ambush the portage. The only way of escape lay through the rapids. Some one must draw the enemy into the woods and far enough away to give the refugees chance to escape by water unseen. Cadieux and a young Algonquin volunteered for the perilous service. Exposing themselves to view, they drew the Iroquois away from the river, while the rest of the little settlement ran the rapids and escaped. Cadieux and his Algonquin companion became separated, either by accident or design, and the Indian was killed. Three days and nights the Iroquois pursued the white man, who went without sleep all that time. In the meantime his wife and her companions reached safety. Days passed, and Cadieux did not rejoin them as he had agreed to. At last three men set out to seek for him. At Sept-chutes, near the Petit Rocher, or Little Rock, they found a lodge of branches, and beside it, lying in a shallow trench with a cross at its head, the wasted body of Cadieux. On his breast, under his folded hands, was a sheet of birch bark covered with writing, the words, according to tradition, of his death lament. He had become lost in his wanderings and had returned to his starting place, where he had died of exhaustion and starvation.
Suffering from cold and hunger, huddled around the fire in their little wigwam, the wind roaring through the trees overhead, and the snow and sleet beating upon the bark, the lads realized as never before the tragedy of Cadieux’s fate. Unless the storm ceased soon and they found food promptly, they, too, might perish in the wilderness far from human aid. It was no wonder that Jean’s voice, hoarse from cold and weak from hunger, trembled as he sang the closing lines.
“Ces done ici que le mond m’abandonne,
Mais j’ai secours en vous, Sauveur des hommes!