The Forge in the Forest: Being the Narrative of the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Seigneur de Briart; and How He Crossed the Black Abbé; and of His Adventures in a Strange FellowshipRoberts, Charles G. D., Sir
History
The Forge in the Forest: Being the Narrative of the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Seigneur de Briart; and How He Crossed the Black Abbé; and of His Adventures in a Strange Fellowship
Roberts, Charles G. D., Sir
Acadians -- Fiction; Canada -- History -- To 1763 (New France) -- Fiction; Historical fiction
There was a steady light in his eyes that rejoiced me much, and his
voice rose and fell as if fain to break into a war song; and I said to
myself, "The boy is a fighter, and the fire is in his blood, for all
his scholar's prating of peace!" Yet he straightway turned his back
upon the enemy and with great indifference went to filling his pipe.
"Ay, an' there be a right good gun in the cuddy!" grunted Tamin, after
a second or two of silence.
"The saints be praised!" said I. And Marc's long arm reached in to
capture it. It was a huge weapon, and my heart beat high at sight of
it. Marc caressed it for an instant, then reluctantly passed it to me,
with the powder-horn.
"I can shoot, a little, myself," said he, "but I would be presumptuous
to boast when you were by, Father!"
"Ay, vraiment," said Tamin, sharply; "don't think you can shoot with
the Sieur de Briart yet!"
"I don't," replied Marc, simply, as he handed me out a pouch of bullets
and a pouch of slugs.
The pursuing canoes were by this come within fair range. There came a
strident hail from the foremost:--
"Lay to, or we shoot!"
"Shoot, dogs!" I shouted, ramming home the good measure of powder which
I had poured into my hand. I followed it with a fair charge of slugs,
and was wadding it loosely, when--
"Duck!" cries Tamin, bobbing his head lower than the tiller.
Neither Marc nor I moved a hair. But we gazed at the canoes. On the
instant two red flames blazed out, with a redoubled bang; and one
bullet went through the sail a little above my head.
"Not bad!" said Marc, glancing tranquilly at the bullet hole.
But for my own part, I was angry. To be fired upon thus, at a priest's
orders, by a pack of scurvy savages in the pay of our own party,--never
before had Jean de Briart been put to such indignity. I kneeled, and
took a very cautious aim,--not, however, at the savages, but at the bow
of the nearest canoe.
Tamin's big gun clapped like a cannon, and kicked my shoulder very
vilely. But the result of the shot was all that we could desire. As I
made haste to load again I noticed that the savage in the bow had
fallen backward in his place, hit by a stray slug. The bulk of the
charge, however, had torn a great hole in the bark, close to the
water-line.
[Illustration: Tamin's big gun clapped like a cannon, and kicked my
shoulder very vilely.]
"You've done it, Father!" said Marc, in a tone of quiet exultation.
"Hein!" grunted Tamin. "They don't like the wet!"
The canoe was going down by the bow. The other two craft ranged
hurriedly alongside, and took in the gesticulating crew,--all but one,
whom they left in the stern to paddle the damaged canoe to land, being
loth to lose a serviceable craft. With broken bow high in air the
canoe spun around, and sped off up the Basin before the wind. The
remaining two resumed the chase of us. We had gained a great space
during the confusion, yet they came up upon us fast.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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