“’Tis no fault of yours if I do not. But not now, Monsieur. It is late, and cold. We take the boats early, and I would rest while I can.”
He was on his feet, the map gripped in his hand, but made no effort to stop me, as I dropped him a curtsey, and retreated. But he was there still when I glanced back from out the safety of the tent, his forehead creased by a frown. When he finally turned away the map was crushed shapeless in his fingers.
The morning dawned somewhat warmer, but with every promise of a storm, threatening clouds hanging above the water, sullen and menacing, their edges tipped with lightning. The roar of distant thunder 206 came to our ears, yet there was no wind, and Cassion decided that the clouds would drift southward, and leave us safe passage along the shore. His canoe had been wrenched in making landing the evening before, and had taken in considerable water during the night. This was bailed out, but the interior was so wet and uncomfortable that I begged to be given place in another boat, and Cassion consented, after I had exhibited some temper, ordering a soldier in the sergeant’s canoe to exchange places with me.
We were the last to depart from the mouth of the stream where we had made night camp, and I took more than usual interest, feeling oddly relieved to be away from Cassion’s presence for an entire day. The man irritated me, insisting on a freedom of speech I could not tolerate, thus keeping me constantly on defense, never certain when his audacity would break bounds. So this morning it was a relief to sit up, free of my blanket, and watch the men get under way.
We may have proceeded for half a league, when a fog swept in toward the land enveloping us in its folds, although we were close enough to the shore so as to keep safely together, the word being passed back down the line, and as we drew nearer I became aware that De Artigny’s boat had turned about, and he was endeavoring to induce Cassion to go ashore and make camp before the storm broke. The latter, however, 207 was obstinate, claiming we were close enough for safety, and finally, in angry voice, insisted upon proceeding on our course.
De Artigny, evidently feeling argument useless, made no reply, but I noticed he held back his paddlers, and permitted Cassion’s canoe to forge ahead. He must have discovered that I was not with Monsieur, for I saw him stare intently at each of the other canoes, as though to make sure of my presence, shading his eyes with one hand, as he peered through the thickening mist. This action evidenced the first intimation I had for days of his continued interest in my welfare, and my heart throbbed with sudden pleasure. Whether, or not, he felt some premonition of danger, he certainly spoke words of instruction to his Indian paddlers, and so manipulated his craft as to keep not far distant, although slightly farther from shore, than the canoe in which I sat.
Cassion had already vanished in the fog, which swept thicker and thicker along the surface of the water, the nearer boats becoming mere indistinct shadows. Even within my own canoe the faces of those about me appeared gray and blurred, as the damp vapor swept over us in dense clouds. It was a ghastly scene, rendered more awesome by the glare of lightning which seemed to split the vapor, and the sound of thunder reverberating from the surface of the lake.
The water, a ghastly, greenish gray, heaved beneath, giving us little difficulty, yet terrifying in its suggestion of sullen strength, and the shore line was barely discernible to the left as we struggled forward. What obstinacy compelled Cassion to keep us at the task I know not––perchance a dislike to yield to De Artigny’s advice––but the sergeant swore to himself, and turned the prow of our canoe inward, hugging the shore as closely as he dared, his anxious eyes searching every rift in the mist.
Yet, dark and drear as the day was, we had no true warning of the approaching storm, for the vapor clinging to the water concealed from our sight the clouds above. When it came it burst upon us with mad ferocity, the wind whirling to the north, and striking us with all the force of three hundred miles of open sea. The mist was swept away with that first fierce gust, and we were struggling for life in a wild turmoil of waters. I had but a glimpse of it––a glimpse of wild, raging sea; of black, scurrying clouds, so close above I could almost reach out and touch them; of dimly revealed canoes flung about like chips, driving before the blast.