“What’s that?” Parnell pointed at something in the river.
“It’s a chunk of ice,” Butler said.
MacKim nodded. Since the thaw had begun, the St Lawrence had been a mixture of fast-flowing water, sheets of ice, large icebergs and smaller pieces that the current had swept past them. General Murray had ordered patrols along the riverbank to watch for any French waterborne raiding.
“There’s something on the ice,” Parnell said.
They all peered into the river, although, with the sun reflecting from the ice, the glare made distinguishing anything next to impossible.
“It’s an animal of some sort,” Butler said.
“Animal be damned,” MacKim said. “It’s waving at us. Animals don’t wave.”
“It’s a man,” Parnell said. “No, damn it all, it’s just a boy.”
For a moment, the Rangers watched as the ice floe travelled down the river, turning this way and that, colliding with other pieces of ice, spinning and then straightening up.
“That poor lad hasn’t got a hope,” Parnell said. “The current will take him all the way to the sea, but he’ll die of the cold long before.”
MacKim nodded. The boy looked about ten. He raised both hands in a gesture of supplication as he came closer, and then a trick of the current swept him further into the centre of the river.
“We can’t let him die,” MacKim said. He became aware of a group of Quebec civilians watching, with Claudette in the middle.
“Why not?” Butler spat a stream of tobacco juice into the river. “He’s come from upstream, so he’ll be either French or Canadian. Either would cut your throat or lift your hair in an instant.”
Claudette stepped closer, grabbed MacKim’s tunic and pointed to the child. “Please,” she said.
“I can’t let him drown,” MacKim said. He eyed the river. A ridge of ice extended from the shore about two hundred yards into the water, where the edge splintered. “If I can get out there,” he said. “I might be able to reach the lad.”
“More likely, you’ll fall in and drown yourself,” Butler said.
“That’s a possibility,” MacKim said. He handed over his musket, removed his bayonet and pistol and gave them to Parnell. “Look after these for me.”
“You’re a fool, Sergeant,” Parnell said.
“Aye, no doubt.”
MacKim inched onto the ice. It was thick at the shore and bore his weight without difficulty and, his confidence mounting, MacKim slid further out. The water rushed past him, greeny-blue, with the occasional small piece of ice clattering against the ridge on which he walked. When one large floe hit the shelf, the edge splintered, making MacKim shudder. He had no desire to end up like the boy, cascading downriver on a fragment of ice.
The boy was thirty yards away, watching MacKim through huge eyes, with a frozen branch blocking the downward passage of his floe. MacKim knew it was only a short reprieve, for the force of the current would soon propel the ice on again. MacKim calculated that the floe would pass within a few feet of the edge of his ice ridge, so he might be able to save the boy. If not, MacKim told himself, the boy had to depend on the mercy of God, for he was not inclined to jump into the freezing river.
The ice under MacKim’s feet was bending, and much thinner than it had been next to the shore. He could see the river flowing beneath him, while every collision with ice floes caused it to shudder and broke small pieces off the edge.
“Dear God, is a soldier’s life not dangerous enough without attempting such a foolhardy stunt?” MacKim asked himself. “I must be the most stupid man alive.”
The edge of the ridge was six feet away, slowly disappearing under the force of the current and the collision with floating ice. Even a casual glance assured MacKim that the ice would not bear his weight. That meant the boy would pass at least ten feet from him, which was too far to stretch.
What the devil do I do now?
MacKim glanced at the shore, where quite a crowd had gathered to watch. He saw Lieutenant Kennedy there, urging him on, and Claudette, watching with narrow, calculating eyes as she held Hugo close to her.
“Your jacket!” Kennedy had to shout above the roar of the river and the constant clinking of ice. “Use your jacket!”
MacKim stared for a moment. The boy’s ice floe had detached itself from the branch and was coming downriver, well out of reach. The boy reached out a despairing hand, crying for help.
“Oh, Jesus, help me!” MacKim said. He dragged off his jacket, held it by one sleeve and threw it towards the boy, leaning as far over the river as he could to gain more distance.
“Take hold of the coat!” MacKim yelled, then repeated the words in French. “Attrapez le manteau!”
The boy looked at him, understanding but clearly too cold or too afraid to move. His ice floe was small, barely large enough to hold him, and when he moved, pieces fell off.
MacKim tried a second time, withdrawing the coat, inching closer, so he stood dangerously close to the fragmenting edge of the ice-ridge and threw again. “Take hold of the coat, and I’ll pull you in!”
The boy tried to speak but failed. He reached out for the coat, missed, made a desperate attempt to remain on the ice floe, which tipped sideways, and he slid into the water.
“Oh, Lord, save us!” For a moment, MacKim watched the boy struggle in the current, and then he stepped in, gasping at the shock of nearly-freezing water. The boy gave him a look of terror and sank beneath the surface.
“I’m coming!”
MacKim took three strokes, grabbed hold of the boy by the hair and hauled him up. A small ice floe rammed MacKim on the shoulder and spun away, tossing on the current.
“Stay alive!” MacKim ordered, gasping, and looked for the ice ridge. The current had already carried them twenty yards downstream, with some of the onlookers keeping pace with them, their voices sounding hollow and very far away. MacKim saw Chisholm on the riverbank, his mouth open as he shouted advice.
The boy was still, not even struggling as MacKim struck out for the shore, feeling his strength drain as he sunk deeper in the water.
“Hold on, lad,” MacKim said, “hold on.”
The current increased as MacKim neared the shore, with the boy’s weight slowing him down. “Get your head above water,” MacKim said. “Don’t die on me. Breathe, damn you!” The sound of the river was deafening, a roaring of water and clinking of ice. MacKim knew he might survive if he released the boy. Nobody would know; nobody would blame you, he told himself. You’ve done your best.
No! No, I won’t let go.
With that determination, MacKim pushed harder, kicking with his legs, swimming with one arm as he tried to hold the boy’s head above water.
The contact stunned MacKim, so he opened his mouth to yell and swallowed bitterly cold water. For an instant, he could not work out what had happened and then realised the current had rammed him against another shelf of ice. Each twist of the river created a point of ice that stretched from the shore into the water. MacKim reached out, feeling his hand slide over the surface, but held on.
“Are you still with me?”
The boy was only semi-conscious, his mouth opening and closing and incoherent sounds emerging.
“Stay alive!” MacKim ordered.
The ice shelf was thickest at the shore side and collapsing further out. MacKim managed to haul the boy to the side of the ice. He knew it would not hold his weight and remained in the water, feeling the numbness creep up his legs. “Try to climb up,” he said.
The boy stared at him, too dazed and cold to respond.
“I’ll help you,” MacKim said and pushed at the boy with all his remaining strength.
“I’ve got him.” Kennedy ran along the ice, slipping twice, and took hold of the boy. “Now, get out of the water, Sergeant!”
Other men were there, Parnell and Butler, with Chisholm looking anxious as he knelt on the ice and extended a hand. Some civilians were behind them, with Claudette watching, grave-faced.
Once released from the boy’s weight, MacKim felt an overwhelming desire to let go, to allow the river to take him, to escape from all his worries. It would be so easy to die here.
“Come out of that!” Chisholm’s brawny hands grabbed MacKim by the shoulders and hauled. “Typical bloody sergeant, playing in the water rather than watching for the French.”
MacKim lay face down on the ice, spewing water that seemed to burn his throat and lungs. He saw Kennedy pass the boy over to Claudette, and then strong hands were lifting him.
“We’ll have to get them heated up!” Kennedy said. “Take them to that farmhouse there.”
MacKim tried to walk, staggered and nearly fell until Chisholm and Ramsay grabbed him. “Come on, Sergeant! No lying down on the job.”
The inhabitants of the farmhouse must have watched the drama, for they opened their door without demur, and the soldiers and civilians poured in. The sudden warmth was welcome, and MacKim did not resist as a dozen hands stripped him of his sodden clothing and sat him beside the fire. Claudette watched from the corner of her eyes and then concentrated on the boy.
Somebody brought a couple of towels, and vigorous hands rubbed warmth into MacKim and the boy, while Chisholm managed to find a bottle and forced brandy into MacKim’s mouth. He swallowed, choked, coughed, and swallowed some more.
“You saved his life,” the woman said in French.
MacKim nodded, still shivering and with brandy tricking over his chin.
“You could have let him drown and saved yourself.”
“I nearly did,” MacKim said.
Claudette looked at him. “Maybe, but you didn’t.” Her eyes drifted down MacKim’s body, lingering at the evident wound on his head and the scar across his chest. “You’ve been in the wars, I see.”
“Yes,” MacKim said. He realised he was sitting near-naked in the presence of a woman and hastened to cover himself up. Claudette gave a little smile without further comment.
“I wonder where the lad came from,” Chisholm said.
“He’s French,” MacKim said. “He didn’t understand me until I spoke in French. He must have fallen in the river upstream.”
“I’ll speak to him when he recovers,” Kennedy said. “Or rather, you will, MacKim. You seem to be adept at the French language.”
MacKim nodded. “I speak French, sir.” The warmth and the brandy had revived him, but in his ears, he still heard the savage roar of the river and clinking of ice. “We’d best make sure the lad’s all right. We don’t know how long he was in the water.”
“I’ll take care of him.” Claudette held the boy close as if to protect him from the rough soldiers who had saved his life. “I’ll bring him to you when he’s fit to talk.” She looked at MacKim with a faint smile on her face. “You did a good job, Sergeant Hugh MacKim.”
“Thank you.” MacKim saw his square of beadwork lying on top of his uniform and picked it up as Claudette knelt to speak to the boy he had rescued.