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Updated: June 25, 2025
"To be sure," urges M. Radisson, "come along and have a Christmas with our merry blades!" "Why, then, by the Lord, I will!" decides Gillam. "That is," he added, "if you'll send the marquis and his man, there, back to my fort as hostages."
"It is not a question of where your master is, but of mustering your men and calling the roll," said the Frenchman to the astounded lieutenant. "You see that my people are in control of your powder-house, your cannon, and your ship. Your master is a prisoner in my fort. Now summon your men, and be glad Ben Gillam is not here to kill more of you as he killed your super-cargo!"
The primal instincts come uppermost at such times, and like the wild creatures of the woods facing a foe, instantaneously we wheeled back to back, alert for the enemy that had frightened the caribou. "Hist!" whispers Radisson. "Look!" Ben Gillam leaped into the air as if he had been shot, shrieking out: "It's him! It's him! Shoot him! The thief! The traitor! It's him!"
"Then you might send a dozen brace o' partridges, some oil, and candles." With that they fell to talking in lower tones; and M. Radisson came away with quiet, unspoken mirth in his eyes, leaving Captain Gillam in better mood. "Curse me if he doesn't make those partridges an excuse to go back soon," exclaimed La Chesnaye. "The ship would be of some value; but why take the men prisoners?
There was Kit Gillam with his crooked nose, and Tom Clifton with his deadly Manton and fine cry of dogs, and cheery Jack Parker, who hunted only for the good company, and whose gun was as likely as not to be unloaded when the deer came out to him.
"A curse on the blundering cub!" he muttered, drawing apart to give me instructions. "Pardieu you must profit on this, Ramsay! Keep your eyes open. Spoil a door-lock or two! Plug the cannon if you can! Mix sand with their powder! Shift the sentinels! Get the devils insubordinate " "M. Radisson!" shouted Gillam. "Coming!" says Radisson; and he went off with his teeth gritting sand.
And much more to the same purpose, which told why M. Radisson stooped to beg supper from rivals. At sundown all was ready for departure. La Chesnaye and the marquis had come back with the partridges that were to make pretence for our quick return to the Prince Rupert. Ben Gillam had disguised as a bush-runner, and the canoe lay ready to launch.
That took me through the shadowy forests from town to town, and when I returned my old comrades seemed shot of a sudden from youth to manhood. There was Ben Gillam, a giff-gaffing blade home from the north sea, so topful of spray that salt water spilled over at every word. "Split me fore and aft," exclaims Ben, "if I sail not a ship of my own next year! I'll take the boat without commission.
The ship was jammed and sunk with loss of provisions and fourteen men, including the captain himself. So perished Captain Zachariah Gillam, whom we first met as master of the Nonsuch, the pioneer of all the ships that have since sailed into the Bay in the service of the Hudson's Bay Company.
"I am no slave!" vows Jack in crestfallen tones. "Who said 'slave'?" laughs Gillam triumphantly. "My father saith he is a runaway rat from the Barbadoes," adds Ben to me. With the fear of a hunted animal under his shaggy brows, little Jack tries to read how much is guess. "I am no slave, Ben Gillam," he flings back at hazard; but his voice is thin from fright.
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