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Updated: June 19, 2025
"But I promised Father Carheil not to drink any brandy myself," she added defiantly, as if she feared I might protest, and I felt myself as low as the hound that I had kicked that day because it would have stolen a child's sagamité. "Make haste!" I cried, in a fury with myself, and with the speeding time.
Standing slim and tall in Singing Arrow's dress, he put me such creatures of outward seeming are we absurdly in the wrong, as if I had been rude to a woman. "Father Carheil," he began, "your ears at least are not fettered. Listen, if you will. This man is not to blame. I was thrown in his way, and he took me from pity, to save my life. Now that I am discovered, I will go back to prison with you.
That is the way Father Carheil phrased it, and he was quite right. Every spring, accordingly, if the great trade routes to Montreal were reasonably free from the danger of an overwhelming Iroquois attack, the coureurs-de-bois rounded up the western Indians with their stocks of furs from the winter's hunt.
My embrace had been fervid, and his cassock was rumpled, and his scant hair was stringing wildly from under his skullcap. But shrunken and tumbled as he was, he was impressive. With some men, if you disarrange their outer habit, you lower their inner dignity as well. It was not so with Father Carheil.
But I was not to leave quite unattended. When I reached the canoe, I found Father Carheil talking to Singing Arrow. I was glad to see him. There was something that propped my pride and courage in his irritable, tender greeting. He pressed a vial into my hands. "It is confection of Jacinth. It has great virtue. Take it with you, my son." I knelt. "I would rather take your blessing, father."
The priest stepped forward and wiped his handkerchief across my face. It was wet. "My son, take this more calmly. Cadillac does not know one Indian from another. Does this mean harm?" I shook the sweat from my fingers. "I do not know what it means. But I must go west. I must. Hundreds of men depend on me. Father Carheil?" "Yes, my son." "I bound you once on this very spot. May I bind you again?"
Let this man go west. Whatever his business, it is pressing." With two mad men on my hands, I had to choose between them. I dropped the priest, and gripped the Englishman. "If you go back, I go with you!" I raged in his ear. Then I turned to Father Carheil. "Are you going to report this, father? It is as the Englishman says. I take him as the only way to save him from torture. May we go?"
This statement was confirmed by the report of Nicolas Perrot, who knew the Indians of the West as no one else knew them save perhaps Du Lhut and Carheil. The French were now playing a desperate game in the vast region beyond Lake Erie, which they had been the first of Europeans to explore.
I was not clear as to my course. "Why do you think that we have Singing Arrow?" I blurted out finally. "Pemaou told me." Pemaou again! But we had tricked him. I grinned with joy to think of him with his nose still rooted close to the deserted hole. I could almost forgive him for the trouble he was causing now. "Pemaou lied," I said cheerfully. "Singing Arrow is not with us, Father Carheil.
I had not meant that the men, except Pierre, should be taken into the secret until we were well afloat. Here was another contretemps. "Are you mad, Father Carheil!" I began, with a sorry show of dignity, while my palm stuck like a leech against his lips. "This is not" "Not any one but the prisoner himself," interrupted the Englishman's voice. He dropped his blanket, and sprang to the sand.
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