Blood Brothers in Louisbourg (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

T
he bears had grown fat over the summer. They feasted on the same diet Two-feathers was eating: berries, fish, roots and seeds. But the bears showed no waning of appetite. The more mature among them knew only too well what a winter would bring, what being without food would do to their bodies and how thin they would be when they emerged from their caves in the spring. And so, they kept continually on the move in the wooded hills, rooting through every corner to taste the fruits of the season of plenty.

The bears did not seem alarmed when Two-feathers appeared among them. So attuned to the woods was he, he did not bring into their world any sounds, sights, smells or movements that might disturb them. He did, in fact, act as bear-like as possible, without challenging their ownership of the area. He kept a respectable distance until they got used to him enough to ignore him. And all the while he prayed to the great bear spirit.

He asked for permission to kill an old bear. He explained why he needed the coat and promised to honour the bear by making a neckpiece out of its claws and wearing it on ceremonial occasions. Two-feathers wanted the largest coat he could find. He also wanted to make bear-fur leggings. With such clothes he would be able to sit comfortably in his den in the wintertime. He would sleep with warmth and not shiver. He also asked for the strength and swiftness to kill the bear but not for the courage. The courage he promised to provide himself. He knew that the great bear spirit would not take him seriously if he came asking for courage. It was a very long prayer that went on for days. Two-feathers wanted to impress the spirit with his sincerity.

But killing a bear was no small feat. Typically, warriors killed a bear together, not alone. Two-feathers
crafted ten strong arrows with heavy stone tips. These were short-range arrows designed to sink deeply into the bear. If he managed to get five of them into the bear he would do well. Then he fashioned a long spear, not for throwing but for stabbing. The arrows would wound and enrage the bear but not kill it, at least not right away. Only the spear into the bear's heart would kill it before the bear killed him. An old bear would be slower than a young bear but smarter, and that made it more dangerous.

It took several days to choose the right bear. When he saw it, he knew right away. So did the bear. It returned Two-feathers' look with a stare of profound resignation. It didn't run from him, though it looked like it would have liked to. Instead, it tried to scare him away with a show of strength. It stood tall on its hind legs and scratched at the trees to indicate its impressive height. It growled low and deep and as frighteningly as possible. It grabbed hold of fallen logs with its claws and tossed them around like they were dry leaves. None of this intimidated Two-feathers. He stayed around as if they had made a sacred pact, which they had in a way, because the bear had also communicated in its first frightened glance at him that it was old and tired and ready to leave this world for the pleasures of the next. Nevertheless, its dignity required it to go out with an impressive display of strength.

When Two-feathers finished his preparations and prayers he spoke to the bear from across a clearing. He offered his most sincere apology and thanked the bear for its great generosity. He told it he was proud to fight such a powerful bear. It would be sad before and after the killing, he said, for both of them, but not during the fighting. During the fighting everything was courage.

The first arrow struck the bear at the top of the shoulder and pierced the muscle. The bear flinched, as if stung by a bee, then spun around in great anger. Before it could charge, a second arrow struck close to the same spot, deeply wounding the shoulder. Now the bear felt panic and rage. It began to run towards Two-feathers. Two-feathers stood his ground and let a third arrow fly, but the wily bear ducked beneath it and the arrow only grazed its head. The bear was dangerously close. Two-feathers let fly a fourth arrow and it sank into the bear's neck, without showing any effect. Two-feathers started to run, then turned and let one more arrow fly, piercing the shoulder once again. This time the shoulder collapsed and the bear rolled into a somersault. It rose to its feet, breathing heavily, and moaned. Two-feathers sank another arrow into its neck, this time right under the jaw. The bear twisted its head side to side and tried to pull the arrow free with its claws. Two-feathers ran to the side to get a better shot. A seventh arrow slipped through the fur on top of the bear's head. The bear stared at him, panting heavily, wanting it to be over. It charged again, but it was a desperate charge, without conviction. Two-feathers aimed carefully and let his eighth arrow fly. The arrow went deeply into the other shoulder and the bear went down again. Two-feathers came closer and aimed once more for the neck. The arrow disappeared into the fur and the bear began to choke on its own blood. The end was near.

Out of respect, Two-feathers tried to kill the bear as quickly as he could. But it wasn't easy. He approached with the spear, but the bear kept spinning around, preventing him from getting a shot at its heart. He needed the spear to pierce the heart, otherwise the bear would die very slowly, which was unkind. He tried to stir the bear by sinking one more arrow into its shoulder. But the bear only winced in pain and acceptance of its coming death. Two-feathers couldn't get closer.

Standing, facing the bear, feeling that he owed it a quicker death than this, Two-feathers suddenly ran in and stabbed at it with the spear. But the bear showed the wisdom of its years and turned so that the spear missed it entirely. Suddenly the situation turned very dangerous for Two-feathers. He was too close. He had no arrows left. He could not outrun even a wounded bear. With a powerful burst of energy the bear sprang at him. Two-feathers could only draw his knife and strike for the heart as the bear knocked him to the ground.

His knife struck the heart on the second stabbing, but not before the bear mauled him with its claws and teeth. The teeth were not the problem; the arrows in the bear's throat prevented it from causing Two-feathers much harm that way. But its claws dug deeply into his chest. If he had not struck the heart with the knife the bear would have killed him before it died. But the bear died first. Two-feathers felt its last breath leave and the bear lie still. He crawled out and examined his wounds. The gashes were deep and he was bleeding a lot but he would survive. He would have scars, but would wear them with honour, in memory of the bear.

He offered a prayer of gratitude to the bear and complimented it for its courage and cunning. He wished it a happy life in the next world. Then he went to the river to wash out his wounds and dress them. He gathered mud and plants and made a paste and applied it to his skin. The wounds began to sting. He laughed. The bear had not been willing to leave without giving him a taste of his own medicine. Fair enough, he thought.

It was extremely painful for him to skin the bear but he did not want to wait for fear other animals would come and dishonour the bear by ripping it apart and scattering its bones. Carefully, painstakingly, he cut the pelt off the bear in one piece and removed the claws. Then he made a firepit and lined it with stones. He collected wood, ignited a large fire and dragged the bear's skinned body onto it. All night he burned the bear, adding wood continually and sitting close by and offering prayers of gratitude. By the morning there was nothing left but bones. He gathered them and made a pile in a trough in the river, where no animals would ever disturb them. Then he began the difficult task of scraping the pelt.

He tied the pelt between two trees and stretched it tight. With his knife he began to scrape the flesh from the inside of the pelt until he got down to a smooth under-layer of skin that would dry soft and comfortable against his own skin. The fur on the other side was heavy and thick, the warmest covering known to him. Exhausted from his work and wounds, Two-feathers stayed by the stretched bear pelt for several more days, protecting it and letting it dry. When it was ready he cut it down, rolled it up, strapped it to his back and began the journey back to the swamp.

Chapter Seventeen

W
e squeezed into the hall, a whole regiment of sweaty soldiers, a couple dozen local settlers, their wives and children. The local priest said a prayer and blessed the King of France. Then he gave the floor to my father and asked everyone to listen to him closely. The crowd was in a good mood. The locals weren't used to visitors, and as unsightly and smelly as we were, we seemed to make an impression upon them.

My father began by declaring that he knew the King personally and that the King had taken a special interest in the settlers of Acadia. This had a strong effect. “
Vive le Roi
!” they shouted. He then told them that we were at war with the English. There were gasps of surprise. This was because the English were planning to attack France and Acadia and destroy them, he said. My father paused to let this terrible thought find a home in their imaginations. French people everywhere were rallying to the defence of France and Acadia, he said.

There was a particularly determined group of English soldiers stationed at Annapolis Royal, said my father, who were preparing at this very moment to attack and annihilate all the local settlers of French origin and steal their land. Curses were heard throughout the room. My father paused. It is our Holy duty, he continued, to march against Annapolis Royal, defeat the wicked English and keep Acadia free and God-fearing. Join us, my father pleaded. Bring your muskets and pitchforks. Bring your fathers and your sons. Come with us to annihilate the English.

The hall shook with a roar of shouting. “Annihilate the English! Annihilate the English!
Vive le Roi
!
Vive le Roi
!”

While I knew my father did not always tell the truth, I was surprised at the extent to which he lied to the audience gathered there. He said that England had declared war on France, when in fact it was the other way around. He said that he knew the King personally, which was completely untrue. And he said that the soldiers we were on our way to kill were particularly vicious, with no purpose other than to kill the settlers and take their land. Well, judging from the group we had taken prisoner from the little fort on the mainland, who had given up without much fight, I seriously doubted the viciousness of the garrison at Annapolis Royal.

All of the settlers agreed to join us. It was a unanimous display of patriotism. My father was moved to tears. He went around slapping the backs of fathers and sons and eagerly urged them to get a good night's sleep so they would be prepared to leave the next morning. It was a week's journey by foot. They could expect to return in little more than a fortnight. My father did reluctantly agree, however, after much coaxing, that a short bit of music and toasting wouldn't be out of order. He went off to bed. The weight of a commanding officer's conscience, he confessed, required adequate sleep. And so, amid cheers and salutes to the King and the coming assault on Annapolis Royal, my father and two more officers of the
Compagnies franches de la Marine
went to bed.

There was a moment of silence after they left the room. Then, as if out of nowhere there appeared half a dozen fiddles, spoons, drums and jugs of rum. Nothing in my life prepared me for what happened next.

One man started playing the fiddle. I recognized the music right away – an old French folk tune – but the rhythm was freer than I knew it. Another man joined in. Then a lady began to slap a pair of spoons against her knee. It was the funniest thing to look at, but when I shut my eyes, the clicking made a nice rhythm and actually sounded pretty good. The jugs of rum were passed around and one was shoved into my hands. I politely declined, but Louis, Charles and Pierre appeared, took the jug and held it over my head.

“Drink!” they ordered. “Or we'll pour it on your head!”

I took a sniff at the bottle and winced.

“Drink!” yelled Charles.

I raised the bottle and took a drink. The liquid ran into my throat and burned all the way down into my stomach.

“Great stuff, eh?” said Charles, and he took a long drink and passed the jug on. Soon the room started to spin. The music got louder. People started dancing, singing and clapping. Everyone was smiling and laughing. We took off our jackets. The women removed their shawls. Everyone spread out against the sides and corners of the hall to create an open space in the middle where people could dance. And did they dance! They hopped and skipped and spun around and did somersaults on the floor! I was amazed at the wildness of the fiddle playing too. The fiddlers seemed to be making it up as they went along. It was simple but so full of energy I just couldn't keep my feet still. And the rum heated us up until we were all red in the face and hot in the head. After a while I couldn't stand it anymore; I had to either run out of the hall and get some fresh air or jump into the middle of the circle and join the craziness. To my own amazement, I found myself in the circle, jumping, clapping and swinging around foolishly like a clown. I saw the faces of men and women I didn't know, and yet everyone seemed like my friend. We danced and jumped and kicked for hours. People grabbed me by the hands and swung me around and around and let me go, and then I was caught by the next person, who did the same. On and on it went, while I laughed myself silly.

Eventually the morning came – early and cruel. I felt the worst pain in my head and was sick to my stomach. If this was what the soldiers were experiencing on a regular basis I had more appreciation for their suffering. I promised myself I would never do it again. Many people had stayed up all night. Those of us who had slept at all did so right on the floor of the hall. My father came in and he was furious. I saw him open his mouth to yell, then catch himself. We were there, after all, to recruit the locals, not to upset them, and so he bit his tongue. But I could tell that he was boiling up inside.

It took about an hour to get us all together, on our feet and in some semblance of order. I felt absolutely awful from my head to my toes but especially in my head and stomach. I regretted everything about the night before and again vowed I would never do it again. My father made a quick count of us and came up one short.

“No matter,” he said, “whoever it is will show up soon enough. Let's collect the new recruits and get on our way.”

Well, strangely enough, they could not be found. Everyone had gone home. My father split us up into several groups and sent us out to the farms of the settlers to ask the men to make good on their pledges from the night before. At every house we entered we encountered the same story – the men were very, very sorry but simply could not honour their pledge because of circumstances that had arisen unexpectedly. One settler's horse had suddenly gone lame, another's wife was about to give birth any day, another's potatoes had to come in before the frost. They were all terribly sorry, but would we like to come in for a drink, perhaps?

By the late afternoon, not only had we not received a single new recruit, we were still one man short. That man, it turned out, was Pierre. That didn't surprise me. I vaguely remembered seeing him take a fancy to a particular girl on the dance floor the night before.

As evening settled, my father was in such a fit of rage I thought he would burst or even shoot somebody.

“Should we prepare to bed down in the hall again tonight, sir?” asked one of the soldiers.

“No!” screamed my father. “We leave now! We'll camp in the woods!”

I confess I felt a little bit sorry for him then. It was hard not to. He was filled with so much determination and was trying so hard to do his duty. But his determination went against the grain of almost everyone else on the expedition. His duty included killing people, and that was insane to me. I still could not believe we were travelling to Annapolis Royal to do that.

Watching my father was a little bit like watching a spoiled child who got excited when things went his way but threw a tantrum when they didn't. For the first half of the summer things had gone his way. Now, on this ridiculous expedition to Annapolis Royal, they weren't.