The Zeelhaen had just tacked its sails. Despite the strong waves, the sailors cast a rowboat into the sea and kept it by the ship’s side. Radisson quickly embraced his captain, the master he would have liked to follow a little longer, but now they were going their separate ways: one by land, one by sea. They kept the farewells to a minimum, to keep their sadness hidden away below the surface.
Radisson descended the rope ladder and jumped into the rowboat. He shouted a last goodbye to Johan and the crew, then turned his gaze to the port of La Rochelle. The entrance to the port was flanked by two high stone towers, which he could make out in the distance. The four sailors who accompanied him had a hard time rowing through the choppy water. It took them two hours to reach the town, at the far end of a large bay. The sea calmed as they approached the towers and they easily negotiated the narrow passage that led into the port. The rowboat pulled up to the stone wharf. Radisson grabbed hold of an iron rung and scaled a ladder. He was at last on French soil, back in the land where he was born. “Thank you!” he shouted down to the sailors, who headed straight back to the ship.
Radisson stood for a moment on the wharf. All he had with him were the clothes on his back, the warm but threadbare clothes the commander at Fort Orange and the Dutch sailors had given him, the purse containing forty écus, and the message from Father Poncet. Johan had advised him not to change his plan: the best course of action was to head to the Loire and follow the river to Paris. Radisson would have to double back to Nantes or Angers. How exactly remained to be seen.
A cold wind blew over the port. Four or five ships of considerable tonnage were anchored a short distance from the inland basin, with smaller boats shuttling back and forth between them and the wharf. La Rochelle was a place where people came to trade. So much activity surprised Radisson, even though it was nothing compared to Amsterdam. He walked past a group of people taking shelter from the wind and the cold next to the high stone houses by the water, then took the first street he saw into town.
He recognized the style of the two- and three-storey stone homes that leaned over the narrow, winding streets. He felt at home. But the passersby dashed past him, holding their woolen capes close. He seemed strange to them. He walked aimlessly, being sure to stay close to the port, the one landmark he knew. Merchants had spread out their wares beneath the stone archways he walked through: fabric, bricks, cabbages, bread, ironwork. He saw an inn or two. Perhaps he would stay there. His random course brought him back to the square by the port where an inhospitable gust whipped his face. Better to go back to one of the inns and ask for directions and perhaps find help.
Radisson chose the inn that looked the most welcoming. As soon as he stepped inside, the open fire that sighed with contentment in the fireplace beckoned him. He walked over and held his hands in front of it to warm up. The fireplace was so big there was plenty of room for him to stand by the fire. He stole a glance at the innkeeper and a group of seven or eight men who were chatting noisily around a long wooden table not far away. In the half-light at the back of the inn, a couple was eating in silence. The group did not seem to have noticed Radisson, but the innkeeper was keeping an eye on him. Radisson tried to be as discreet as possible, turning to look at the sculpted stone above the fire. An attractive ash shovel was propped against the fireplace, beside a long wrought iron poker. He felt better here.
The seven men finished their meal, but continued to drink their wine. They spoke loudly, waved their arms around, and talked all over each other. Radisson caught snatches of their conversation. Something was bothering them. Some of them were angry. But the innkeeper had grown impatient and wasn’t going to let Radisson spend all day beside the fire. From behind his long wooden counter, he shouted over:
“Hey, stranger! What’s your business here? Have you come to eat or to drink?”
“I’m warming myself up,” Radisson replied.
“Well, warm yourself up somewhere else! I don’t like strangers hanging about my inn. Are you Dutch?”
The young man’s odd clothing had aroused his suspicions.
“I have come from Amsterdam, but I am French. I have money. I’d like to stay here.”
The innkeeper calmed down.
“Well, then. I might have a room for you.”
“I crossed the ocean on a Dutch boat. I have come from Canada.”
Radisson didn’t say another word. Instead, he waited for the innkeeper’s reaction. Even in a busy port like this, with many travellers passing through every day, Radisson wasn’t sure if the innkeeper would have heard of the colony. But he raised his eyebrows and replied loudly, addressing the men seated at the table along with Radisson.
“From Canada, you say?”
Two members of the group turned around right away.
“I spent three years there. Now I must go to Paris to deliver an urgent message. Someone advised me to follow the Loire. I’m wondering if he was right.”
One of the two who had turned around at the mention of Canada walked over to Radisson, looking wary. He was a great strapping fellow, tall and stout. He stood a good half-head taller than Radisson.
“So you’re back from Canada?” he asked.
“Yes. My sisters live there, too. In Trois-Rivières.”
He didn’t want to mention that he had spent almost all his time among the Iroquois. No Frenchman could understand what he had been through.
“My cousin lives in Québec, and his sister, too,” the hulk of a man went on, pointing at the other man who had turned around at talk of the colony. “Guillaume and I know Canada well. This year, the sailors coming back tell us there’s no trade to be had because of a war with the Wildmen. They say that’s it, they won’t be back again. What do you say?”
Radisson could sense a trap. The man wanted to see if he really had come from New France.
“You mean the Iroquois? It’s true they’re great warriors. But the French will win the day, that’s for sure. No point letting our heads go down. The fur trade’ll pick up again after the war.”
“That’s not what we’re hearing here. Seems as though lots of habitants are thinking about coming back. Even the ones who have been in the colony for years. Guillaume and I are worried about our families.”
“There are also Indians who are with the French. I’ve even heard Iroquois talk of peace, with my own ears. I wouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. The sailors were just passing through. I spent three years there.”
The heavy-set man now brushed against Radisson with his belly. His look was hard, his tone aggressive.
“Do you know his sister, Jeanne-Marie Hunault, née Pichon? Or my cousin, Toussaint Lafond? Ever heard of them?”
“No,” Radisson replied, looking him square in the eye. “I don’t know everyone in Québec. I live in Trois-Rivières.”
“What are your sisters called?”
“Marguerite and Françoise. The eldest is married to Jean Véron dit Grandmesnil. He’s an officer of the militia. Françoise is a servant for the Jesuits.”
Now it was Radisson’s turn to quiz them. The big man took a step back.
“Grandmesnil rings a bell. What’s your name again?”
“Pierre-Esprit Radisson, like my father. I was born in Paris.”
“What brought you here on a Dutch boat? Last time I checked, the Dutch had nothing to do with Canada.”
“The French boats had all gone when I learned I needed to go to Paris urgently. We came through Acadia. The Dutch trade over there and are the only ones to cross the Atlantic so late in the season. They’re the best sailors in the world, you know.”
“And what takes you to Paris?”
“I have a message for the Jesuits. It’s important, urgent even.”
His story checked out. The Dutch were the best sailors; the captains in La Rochelle often took them on. And everything he said about the colony made sense. The big man decided to trust Radisson.
“Come sit with us,” he said, relaxing. “Tell us what’s going on over there. Not every day you meet someone who lives in Canada. I’m Jacques Laîné dit Legros.”
All the men were carters, cartwrights, or day labourers. They worked together at a transport company. Their conversation was very animated because the man they worked for had been killed at war. Rumour had it his rival was planning to marry the widow to get his hands on all his land. If the couple did get married, that would mean less work for them: the rival had his own network of carters and merchants, even mercenaries to protect his men and his goods. What’s more, hay and oats cost more than ever. They were afraid the poorhouse beckoned now that their master was dead.
With one ear on their conversation, Radisson tried his best to answer Jacques and Guillaume’s questions about New France. He said as little as possible so they wouldn’t catch on that he hadn’t set foot there in two years. Maybe their news was more up-to-date than his. Now that he was in their good books, he wanted their help. When the time came, he turned the discussion back to his trip to Paris. Laîné tried to get the group’s attention.
“Listen up!” he said. “Our friend from Canada wants to know how to get to Paris.”
“Why Paris?” one of the carters asked. “You’d be better off staying here, believe me.”
“I have no choice,” Radisson replied. “I absolutely have to deliver this message.”
“He’s right,” chimed in another. “It’s not a good idea going to Paris at the minute. Stay here. Life is good in La Rochelle.”
Radisson was keen to find out why they were trying to put him off leaving for Paris, but before he could get the question out, the innkeeper had set down an appetizing white loaf with a hunk of cheese in front of him.
“Eat up! Let me know what you think. The Dutch wouldn’t know a good meal if they ran into one.”
While he was at the table, the innkeeper set down another jug of wine. The carters roared with delight.
The tasty bread melted in Radisson’s mouth as he devoured his food, a real feast after so many weeks spent eating biscuits as hard as rocks. The cheese delighted his taste buds, as soft and satisfying as a woman’s touch. He felt like a new man. As Radisson ate, Jacques Laîné spoke up again to ask which route their visitor should take.
“And the Loire? Do you think he should follow the Loire? Is that the best way to Paris?”
“If he’s willing to give it a try,” one man piped up, “that’s the way to go. If you’re feeling brave, lad, that’s the way. You don’t look much of a pushover, so go for it. Find yourself a barge and get as far as you can. After that, well, you’ll see for yourself…”
“No one will want to take you there by horse, at any rate,” added another. “The Loire is the best route.”
The men went back to their conversation, the volume rising as the level of the wine in the jug fell. Only Laîné still seemed interested in talk of Paris, shouting down to a small man at the other end of the table who hadn’t yet said a word.
“Nicolas, you’re off to Nantes tomorrow. Couldn’t you take him with you? You’d be doing him a favour and you’d have a fine escort to put your mind at ease.”
The man remained hunched up in his chair, his glass of wine in his hand, hesitant and silent. Four days earlier, he had learned he needed to go to Nantes to visit his sick mother. He was reluctant to leave because of the weather, and the money he would lose, and most of all because he considered the journey dangerous. He had plucked together all his courage to do his duty as a son and was ready to leave, but the thought of travelling in these uncertain times terrified him. He glanced quickly at Laîné, then at the young stranger, wondering if he could trust him.
“Speak up, Nicolas! You’re afraid of your own shadow! Look how strong he is! You’ll have nothing to fear alongside him. What do you say?”
Radisson put on his broadest smile to win the carter over.
“What if he’s a thief?” Nicolas countered. “We don’t even know where he’s come from. Look at how he’s dressed! I don’t trust him.”
“He’s from Canada, Nicolas. I’m sure he’s telling the truth. I’ve already heard tell of Grandmesnil. You’ll both be doing each other a favour. Come on, Nicolas, one good turn…”
“My mother still lives in Paris,” added Radisson, sticking out his chest to look as brave and strong as he could manage, but not too much so as not to frighten the man they claimed was afraid of his own shadow. “I was born there. I’m a Frenchman, just like you! The Dutch gave me these old clothes so I wouldn’t get cold on the crossing. If the Jesuits trust me to deliver one of their messages, you have nothing to fear, I swear!”
Radisson went as far as crossing himself to show he was a good Christian. But Nicolas still wasn’t sure. The stranger was strong and everyone said you needed to be fearless to go to Canada. He would be safe with him. He could even ask for a little money, if he worked up the courage.
Jacques Laîné lost interest with the carter still to reply. It was none of his business, after all. Neither Guillaume nor anyone else wanted to get involved. Radisson made one last effort, flashing Nicolas his winning smile… At last, the carter made up his mind.
“If you dress like a Frenchman, I’ll bring you!” he exclaimed, setting down his wine with a bang on the table.
“With pleasure!” Radisson agreed. “I’ll find myself something to wear tonight. Thank you!”
“Promise you’ll defend us if we run into thieves along the way.”
“I promise!”
“We’ll meet here tomorrow in front of the inn, when the cock crows.”
“I’ll be there!”
That evening, the innkeeper sent for a secondhand clothes dealer so that Radisson could buy the French clothes he needed. He kept only the old wool sailor’s jacket to keep him warm. He spent the night in front of the fire, on a straw mattress on the floor, to be sure he wouldn’t miss the appointment the next morning.
At the first light of day, Nicolas Petit arrived as agreed. Together, they set out for Nantes.
* * *
The cart trundled along the ill-kept, narrow country roads. Nicolas went easy on his horse. He didn’t want to tire it out or break the cart. They passed by fallow land, cut through tiny hamlets where no more than a few dozen people lived, and through two small villages, too. From time to time, they met other ramshackle carts, advancing just as slowly as their own. Almost no one was working in the fields in the off-season, save for a handful of farmers spreading manure. The ploughed land gave the landscape a sombre hue. Trees were few and far between. No greenery, not a trace of snow. Radisson swallowed his impatience and the temptation to complain about the slow going. To pass the time, he told Nicolas about the Canadian winters.
“The snow is this high,” he said, holding his arm up to his face. “Everywhere. It looks a lot better than here.”
Nicolas pulled a face, skeptical.
“Don’t believe me? You ever seen snow?”
“Of course! We can’t take the carts out when it snows. It’s slippery, white, and wet. But it melts in no time.”
“Not in Canada,” came Radisson’s reply. “Over there, it’s so cold the snow lies for six months, piling up day after day. It’s cold enough to crack rocks in two—snap!—just like that! Luckily, there are forests everywhere, and there’s plenty of firewood or else we’d all die of cold.”
“Life doesn’t seem easy in Canada.”
“You need to be made of the right stuff, that’s all. But there are advantages. The snow is beautiful and the cold makes you really feel alive. Canada is another world. Over there, everyone has a wood floor at home, not just the rich. You need one to keep warm. And underneath the floor, people keep their vegetables in wooden crates in winter so they don’t freeze. You go down and get them through a trap door in the floor.”
Radisson had piqued Nicolas’ curiosity. His companion felt as though he was travelling much further than Nantes.
“And if the snow is so deep,” he asked, “how do people get around by cart?”
“We slide across the snow on sleds, just like the Indians. The worst snowstorm I ever saw was like the flood in the Bible, only with snow! We were sheltered in my sister’s house, but when it was over we could hardly get outside there was so much snow. The door was blocked!”
“I don’t believe you!” Nicolas protested.
“I swear! To get about, you have to put on huge snowshoes otherwise you’re up to your neck in the stuff! Snowshoes are like wicker baskets, only long and flat. With a pair of them on your feet, you can walk about no problem and pull the sleds I was telling you about. It’s not easy at first, but you get used to it in no time. Without snowshoes, you can get buried alive in the snow.”
“So you don’t have any carts?”
“In summer, yes, but not in winter. For heavy loads like firewood, we hitch up a big sled behind one or two oxen. We don’t have horses over there.”
“No horses!”
“Not yet.”
“Unbelievable!”
“The Indians showed us how. They’ve been living like that for a long time. They’ve got the knack of it. But it’s not an easy country. Everything is still to be done.”
“Then why do we keep hearing here that Canada’s finished?”
“Because of the war. There are Indians who are friends with the French, but others are their sworn enemies.”
“It’s the same here. Damned war. Everything is every which way because of it.”
Nicolas stopped well before dusk. At that rate, Radisson was sure they would never get there. When he said as much to Nicolas, the carter took a while to answer, then said he wanted to play things safe: there were bandits who attacked travellers at nightfall.
“But you have nothing to steal,” exclaimed Radisson. “Your cart is empty!”
“It’s costing me enough money as it is going home to see my mother. Don’t think for a minute I’m going to go and have my stock stolen as well. I don’t like taking risks.”
“Your brother-in-law the innkeeper would surely have bought something from you, I don’t know, some flour or wine. It would have paid for your trip. You didn’t think of that?”
“I have a big ham with me to give to him in return for a place to stay. That’s plenty.”
Radisson bit his tongue, not wanting to further criticize Nicolas, who was after all helping him. But he couldn’t believe a carter hadn’t thought to do a bit of business. What a wasted opportunity this empty cart was!
The next morning, after they had been on the road for an hour, they came across a small group of soldiers.
“Look out!” warned Nicolas. “Take no notice of them.”
As they reached the soldiers, Nicolas kept his head down, fiddling nervously with his harness, while Radisson greeted them enthusiastically. Once the soldiers were behind them, Nicolas whined:
“I told you to be careful!”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” replied Radisson, amazed at the fear that paralyzed his companion. “They don’t bite.”
“It just goes to show you don’t know them! They have muskets and, believe me, they know how to use them. Soldiers are dangerous. They’re behind a lot of the crime.”
“I know how to use a musket too,” boasted Radisson. “I’ll have you know I’m the best shot in Trois-Rivières! Over there, everyone has a musket and knows how to shoot. They have no choice. We’d die of hunger otherwise: we need to hunt our food. And we have to defend ourselves from the Indians. It’s part of life there!”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It is! In Canada, every day we eat the meat God gives us: moose, bear, deer, beaver, goose… Pigs we rear and keep for winter reserves. Plus there’s all the fish to be had from the rivers and lakes! Canada is no country for fearful men, but it’s a great place to live for anyone with guts!”
Nicolas didn’t dare answer. He felt judged, but what could he do? It was true he had always been lacking in courage. But he was shocked to learn that in Canada people ate like kings; he had always thought of New France as a place of poverty and woe. Unless Radisson was flat out lying to him. He felt a little frustrated at the thought that everyone there enjoyed rights that were reserved for lords, princes, and the wealthy in France. How come there was more to eat in this colony in the middle of nowhere than the French had when they worked every waking hour for some black bread and a piece of meat every other week? It wasn’t fair.
“Long ways, long lies,” he protested feebly, trying to defend himself.
“You don’t believe me?” replied Radisson.
“It all seems too good to be true.”
“And I haven’t even mentioned the best thing of all.”
Radisson thought of the magnificent lands he had crossed with the Iroquois, of the boundless freedom he had enjoyed. Just thinking of it still made him giddy.
“You see, Nicolas, you’re used to sleeping in inns. But in Canada, if you want to move around, you have to sleep outside, under the stars when the weather is good, or in the rain with the wild animals. Forests stretch as far as the eye can see. Even after days and days of travelling, you’re still in the forest. The rivers are huge, and the St. Lawrence is as wide as the sea. You’ve never seen the like of it, I’m sure, because there’s nothing like it in France. Canada is a land like no other. I can’t wait to go back.”
Just talking about these wide open spaces sent shivers down Radisson’s spine. Down Nicolas Petit’s, too, but for different reasons. The very idea of getting lost in a vast forest he would never find his way out of had him shaking from head to foot. Because dark and mysterious forests were what he feared most in the world. The longer he listened to Radisson talk about Canada, the more disheartened he felt. The colony was barely inhabited, under threat from the Indians, and he was sure that he would never, ever set foot there. But at the same time, it fascinated him and he envied Radisson for feeling so at home there. He listened with the same interest he reserved for a preacher describing heaven and hell to him. He never tired of it. Even though he wasn’t entirely sure Radisson was telling him the whole truth, he had never travelled in such entertaining company. The long journey was passing by in a flash.
Radisson, on the other hand, was fast running out of patience when Nicolas stopped a second time in the mid-afternoon, fearing they wouldn’t make the next inn before nightfall. So as not to lose his temper with his amiable companion, he went for a walk in the deserted fields surrounding the village.
The next day, Radisson was less talkative, afraid he might reveal he had lived among the Iroquois for so long. The news might work against him, he thought. The secret was a weight on his shoulders and kept him on the alert. He made do with telling another tale or two about his life in Trois-Rivières. The journey seemed to be dragging on forever.
In the late afternoon, Nicolas stopped his cart in front of five thatched farmhouses, huddled cheek by jowl, their chimneys smoking. Behind them, a few animals grazed in a field dotted with shrivelled tree stumps. No one in sight. The hamlet was at the intersection of two quiet roads.
“We’re going to sleep there,” said Nicolas, pointing at the biggest house.
“Not this again!” exclaimed Radisson, unable to contain his disappointment. “Listen, Nicolas, we have plenty of time to make it until the next village at least. Look, you can see the church steeple over there in the distance.”
“No way,” declared Nicolas.
They would have to cut through one of the area’s rare woods and the thought of being stuck there at dusk, perhaps even after night had fallen, made his blood run cold.
“Buddy’s tired.”
“Tired? Come on, Nicolas. Your horse is fine! He’s used to working much harder than this! Come on, let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”
But there was no way Nicolas was venturing into a forest so late in the day. This gave him the resolve he needed to stand up to his impetuous companion.
“No!” he repeated, firmly.
“Even Buddy wants to go on, I’m sure,” Radisson insisted. “Please, Nicolas, we have lots of time to make it to the next village.”
Nicolas didn’t give an inch, already imagining the bandits and werewolves lying in wait for them, ready to drag them from their chosen paths to a life of eternal suffering. The homes, villages, and church steeples they could see here and there in the distance didn’t change a thing. To Nicolas, the forest might as well have been the end of the world. There was no way he was going to set foot in it. Radisson paid no heed to his guide’s reluctance and cried out:
“Giddy up, Buddy! Come on!”
The horse broke into such a gallop that both men were thrown back in their seats, almost sending the cart into a ditch. It took Nicolas a second or two to catch hold of the reins and regain control of his horse, which finally came to a halt a hundred metres or so down the road. The carter had turned bright red with anger. He was so scared he could hardly breathe. He couldn’t speak. Radisson, also surprised at Buddy’s reaction, had been frightened the cart would break. But, as it turned out, they were none the worse for wear.
“See? Your horse can’t be that tired. Come on, Nicolas, let’s press on. We’re almost there.”
The carter didn’t move a muscle. The incident had left him so shaken up that his whole body was trembling. Radisson wondered what he should do.
“We can’t cut through the woods at this hour,” Nicolas finally stammered. “We’ll be set upon by bandits.”
“So that’s it!” Radisson said to himself. For him, the woods held no danger. He just had to find a way to make Nicolas feel safe. After thinking for a moment, an idea came to mind. He jumped up, brandishing his eagle-head knife and shouting:
“Bandits? Bring them on!”
Nicolas jumped up with fright, exclaiming:
“Please! Please, don’t kill me! Have mercy!”
Radisson was bewildered.
“For heaven’s sake, Nicolas,” he reassured him, “I just wanted to show you I know how to defend myself. This is a powerful knife. It will have the better of anyone.”
Nicolas calmed down, but still couldn’t bring himself to move on.
“And what if twenty of them attack us,” he asked. “What will you do then?”
“Twenty bandits! He has some imagination,” thought Radisson, sitting back down. He had never met such a coward. But an image suddenly had him trembling: his torture. He thought back to the day he left Trois-Rivières, laughing at those who had warned him of the danger. Realizing he would have trouble fending off an attack from a group of thieves with just his knife, he thought better of it.
“You’re right, Nicolas. We’ll keep going to the next village since we have plenty of time, but we won’t go unprepared. We’ll play it safe.”
Nicolas was just as terrified by this option, but now that he knew his companion was armed, he wasn’t going to contradict him. He could do whatever he wanted to him.
“Before we go into the woods,” Radisson explained to him, “give Buddy something to eat. Give him a few oats to get him worked up. While you’re doing that, I’ll go find us two big sticks. There are bound to be some on the edge of the forest. After that, we’ll gather rocks to bring with us in the cart. That way, if anyone tries to block our path, they’ll soon know who they’re dealing with. And if one of them is brave enough to attack us, I’ll get him with my knife! The main thing, Nicolas, will be to get Buddy going at a good trot. We’ll cross the wood at top speed so that no one can lay a hand on us. Right, let’s get going!”
Even though fear was still tying the carter’s stomach in knots, Nicolas chose the lesser of two evils. The risk of stumbling upon bandits seemed less awful to him than having to stand up to the man telling him what to do. As he fed his horse, he prayed to God, asking him to forgive him his sins and not to keep him in purgatory for longer than a hundred years or two since he had never committed any mortal sins and was sorry for the others. Radisson found a long bough, which he cut into two clubs of equal length. He kept the heavier one for himself. He then gathered thirty or so rocks the size of a man’s fist and set them down on the cart. They were ready. The carter, fuming silently, moved his horse forward to the edge of the woods.
“As soon as we’re in the trees,” Radisson ordered, “break him into a trot. But not too quickly. He’ll have to keep going until we reach the other side. I’ll lie down in the back and hide. If thieves block our path, I’ll jump up. You get Buddy into a gallop, then charge them. We’ll be able to surprise them. They won’t know what hit them, Nicolas. Sound like a plan? You with me? Let’s go!”
“This is all we needed,” Nicolas grumbled to himself. Here he was all alone, having to confront all the dangers in the world at once. It was the worst day of his life. The shadows and the damp made his blood run cold as they entered the forest. But he followed Radisson’s orders. He snapped the reins and Buddy broke into a trot as Nicolas stared blankly ahead and prayed with all his heart that no harm would come to them.
Radisson scanned the woods and the path ahead, peering over Nicolas’ shoulder and paying close attention to the slightest sound, like an Iroquois on the warpath. He was positive he would be able to hear bandits talking to each other above the creaking of the wheels and the clip-clop of the hoofs on the path. He clutched his eagle-head knife in one hand, his club in the other. The stones he had gathered rolled about on the floor of the cart. He feared nothing. He had thought of everything.
“Keep at it, Nicolas. We’re going well. We’re going to make it.”
The spirit of the eagle was watching over him and inspiring him to do the right thing, of that he was sure. Woe betide anyone who crossed their path. He would make mincemeat out of them. The cart moved forward at a right old clip, with barely a bump or a jolt across the even surface. Radisson was thrilled: at last they were moving forward as fast as he had hoped.
“Don’t worry, Nicolas. We’re almost there.”
Encouraged, the carter gave Buddy a slap with the reins. He could see the light at the end of the forest. Just five hundred metres more. He was going to make it… God have mercy on our souls, he repeated under his breath.
They came out into the open. The sun was disappearing on the horizon, behind the enormous steeple whose silhouette stood out against the fiery sky. It was still light as they entered the village. The inn welcomed them with open arms.
Nicolas brushed Buddy again and again by the light of a lantern in the stables. His horse had kept trotting right to the end. He had gotten very warm, but he didn’t look exhausted. The carter was extraordinarily proud of his workmate. For years they had shared everything, good times and bad. They were in it together, almost like man and wife. Radisson hovered close by them since something approaching a state of grace was emanating from Nicolas, visibly surprised and pleased at what he had accomplished. After having seen him so terrorized, it was heartwarming to see him looking so glad.
“That’s some horse you have there, Nicolas,” Radisson told him, giving Buddy a pat.
“Don’t know a better one.”
As they shared a meal in the inn, Nicolas tried to sort out his thoughts. Although extremely tired, he felt more gratitude than resentment toward Radisson, who had shown him he was more resourceful than he had ever imagined. This small victory—a considerable one, to him—had given him a taste of freedom and excitement. With a little help from the wine, he felt like he was walking on air.
Radisson preferred to stay clear of wine. The sight of his brother Ganaha becoming the shadow of himself under the effects of alcohol had left a bad taste in his mouth. He considered it more sensible to keep his wits about him. Paris was still a long way away.
* * *
When they arrived in Nantes, Nicolas’ brother-in-law put them up for the night. The innkeeper grimaced without a word of explanation when he heard Radisson was headed to Paris. Radisson, who was in a hurry to get back on the road, was not worried in the slightest. Early the next morning, Nicolas brought him down to the port and showed him where to find the boatmen who were heading upriver.
Along the quay, a number of lifeless craft were waiting for spring to arrive. A few small fishing boats moved across the estuary. Only a handful of flat-bottomed boats, designed for navigating the Loire, were loaded up with goods and ready to cast off to the towns and villages inland. Since Radisson saw no captain or crew, he had no idea if he would be allowed to board.
In the distance, a stout man was having trouble rolling a heavy barrel up an incline. He caught Radisson’s eye and Radisson moved closer to get a better look. The man was quite old and swearing like a sailor. Seeing him arrive out of breath at the wharf’s edge, giving the barrel one last shove to stack it next to a dozen more, then sitting down for a quick rest, swearing all the while, Radisson thought to himself that the man was surely in need of a helping hand. A dozen more barrels were waiting in the barge.
“Hello there!” Radisson shouted. “I can unload them for you, if you’d like!”
“Leave me alone! I can manage. Young good-for-nothings like you aren’t in short supply round here.”
“My father is a merchant, sir. I’ve carried thousands of barrels before! I’m not afraid of a good day’s work.”
“Are ye deaf?” the man exclaimed, with a threatening stare. “I told ye to leave me alone!”
“If you’re going back upriver, I can help. I can do anything: carry things around, sail, fish. I’d like to help you, sir, if you’re going towards Paris.”
The boatman took a moment to look the bold young man up and down. The morning was a fresh one, but he was covered in sweat. He spat on the ground, then asked:
“Know how to pilot a boat, do you?”
“Yes. I’ve crossed the ocean, sir. I took the helm of a store ship from Amsterdam to La Rochelle. I’m a good sailor.”
The boatman inspected Radisson. So he wanted to come aboard, did he? He seemed to be made of the right stuff. He looked strong and honest.
“Show me what you can do, lad. Hop down onto the barge, take a barrel, and bring it back up here. But be careful! It’s good Vouvray wine I have in there. Break a barrel and I’ll break every bone in yer body! Now get to it!”
Radisson ran down the slope, jumped onto the barge, tipped a barrel onto its side, rolled it along the gangway that came up from the barge, then pushed it quickly up the slope. With the boatman keeping a close eye on him, once on the wharf, he gave the barrel a shove just like the older man had done and put it beside the others. A nice, quick job. It reminded him of the days he had spent moving goods around with his father: brandy, boards, sacks of grain, scrap metal… anything that could be bought and sold in the neighbourhood.
“I see you were telling no lies,” the boatman told him, satisfied. “Follow me.”
They walked down together to the barge, where the big man gave him his orders.
“Bring in the sheet.”
Radisson found the right rope and yanked on it.
“Where’s the halyard?”
Radisson pointed to the rope used to hoist the sail.
“Turn to the port side.”
Radisson pushed the tiller to the right to turn the boat left, all the while keeping an eye on the top of the mast as though he were looking at the sails.
“I could always take you on for a trial,” the man concluded, relieved to have found a helping hand. “So long as you bring all these barrels up to the wharf and you help me load the salt I have to bring to Orléans. But I’ll tell you one thing, lad. I’ll be keeping a very close eye on you. Any problems and you’re off my boat. I’m not in the habit of trusting strangers, but I’m in a bit of a fix. And don’t think you’ll be getting paid for any of this! I’ll feed you, that’s all. Count yourself lucky I’m bringing you with me.”