The last two hundred miles of their journey had been made under trying conditions. Accidents had befallen the canoes which carried the food, and the country through which they passed was almost devoid of game. During the last three days they had little or nothing to eat. When, therefore, at night they came suddenly upon the shores of Hudson’s Bay, and Fort Hayes lay silent before them, they were ready for desperate enterprises. The high stockade walls with stout bastions and small cannon looked formidable, yet there was no man of them but was better pleased that the odds were against him than with him. Though it was late spring, the night was cold, and all were wet, hungry, and chilled.
Iberville’s first glance at the bay and the fort brought disappointment. No vessel lay in the harbour, therefore it was probable Gering was not there. But there were other forts, and this one must be taken meanwhile. The plans were quickly made. Iberville advised a double attack: an improvised battering-ram at the great gate, and a party to climb the stockade wall at another quarter. This climbing-party he would himself lead, accompanied by his brother Sainte-Helene, Perrot, and a handful of agile woodsmen. He had his choice, and his men were soon gathered round him. A tree was cut down in the woods some distance from the shore, shortened, and brought down, ready for its duty of battering-ram.
The night was beautiful. There was a bright moon, and the sky by some strange trick of atmosphere had taken on a green hue, against which everything stood out with singular distinctness. The air was placid, and through the stillness came the low humming wash of the water to the hard shore. The fort stood on an upland, looking in its solitariness like some lonely prison-house where men went, more to have done with the world than for punishment. Iberville was in that mood wherein men do stubborn deeds—when justice is more with them than mercy, and selfishness than either.
“If you meet the man, Pierre?” De Casson said before the party started.
Iberville laughed softly. “If we meet, may my mind be his, abbe! But he is not here—there is no vessel, you see! Still, there are more forts on the bay.” The band knelt down before they started. It was strange to hear in that lonely waste, a handful of men, bent on a deadly task, singing a low chant of penitence—a Kyrie eleison. Afterwards came the benediction upon this buccaneering expedition, behind which was one man’s personal enmity, a merchant company’s cupidity, and a great nation’s lust of conquest! Iberville stole across the shore and up the hill with his handful of men. There was no sound from the fort; all were asleep. No musket-shot welcomed them, no cannon roared on the night; there was no sentry. What should people on the outposts of the world need of sentries, so long as there were walls to keep out wild animals! In a few moments Iberville and his companions were over the wall. Already the attack on the gate had begun, a passage was quickly made, and by the time Iberville had forced open the doors of the blockhouse, his followers making a wild hubbub as of a thousand men, De Troyes and his party were at his heels. Before the weak garrison could make resistance they were in the hands of their enemies, and soon were gathered in the yard—men, women, and children.
Gering was not there. Iberville was told that he was at one of the other forts along the shore: either Fort Rupert on the east, a hundred and twenty miles away, or at Fort Albany, ninety miles to the north and west. Iberville determined to go to Fort Rupert, and with a few followers, embarking in canoes, assembled before it two nights after. A vessel was in the harbour, and his delight was keen. He divided his men, sending Perrot to take the fort, while himself with a small party moved to the attack of the vessel. Gering had delayed a day too long. He had intended leaving the day before, but the arrival of the governor of the company had induced him to remain another day; entertaining his guest at supper, and toasting him in some excellent wine got in Hispaniola. So palatable was it that all drank deeply, and other liquors found their way to the fo’castle. Thus in the dead of night there was no open eye on the Valiant.
The Frenchmen pushed out gently from the shore, paddled noiselessly over to the ship’s side, and clambered up. Iberville was the first to step on deck, and he was followed by Perrot and De Casson, who had, against Iberville’s will, insisted on coming. Five others came after. Already they could hear the other party at the gate of the fort, and the cries of the besiegers, now in the fort yard, came clearly to them.
The watch of the Valiant, waking suddenly, sprang up and ran forward, making no outcry, dazed but bent on fighting. He came, however, on the point of Perrot’s sabre and was cut down. Meanwhile Iberville, hot for mischief, stamped upon the deck. Immediately a number of armed men came bundling up the hatch way. Among these appeared Gering and the governor, who thrust themselves forward with drawn swords and pistols. The first two men who appeared above the hatchway were promptly despatched, and Iberville’s sword was falling upon Gering, whom he did not recognise, when De Casson’s hand diverted the blow. It caught the shoulder of a man at Gering’s side.
“‘Tis Monsieur Gering!” said the priest.
“Stop! stop!” cried a voice behind these. “I am the governor. We surrender.”
There was nothing else to do: in spite of Gering’s show of defiance, though death was above him if he resisted. He was but half-way up.
“It is no use, Mr. Gering,” urged the governor; “they have us like sheep in a pen.”
“Very well,” said Gering suddenly, handing up his, sword and stepping up himself. “To whom do I surrender?”
“To an old acquaintance, monsieur,” said Iberville, coming near, “who will cherish you for the king of France.”
“Damnation!” cried Gering, and his eyes hungered for his sword again.
“You would not visit me, so I came to look for you; though why, monsieur, you should hide up here in the porch of the world passeth knowledge.”
“Monsieur is witty,” answered Gering stoutly; “but if he will grant me my sword again and an hour alone with him, I shall ask no greater joy in life.”
By this time the governor was on deck, and he interposed.
“I beg, sir,” he said to Iberville, “you will see there is no useless slaughter at yon fort; for I guess that your men have their way with it.”
“Shall my messenger, in your name, tell your people to give in?”
“By Heaven, no: I hope that they will fight while remains a chance. And be sure, sir, I should not have yielded here, but that I foresaw hopeless slaughter. Nor would I ask your favour there, but that I know you are like to have bloody barbarians with you—and we have women and children!”
“We have no Indians, we are all French,” answered Iberville quietly, and sent the messenger away.
At that moment Perrot touched his arm, and pointed to a man whose shoulder was being bandaged. It was Radisson, who had caught Iberville’s sword when the abbe diverted it.
“By the mass,” said Iberville; “the gift of the saints!” He pricked Radisson with the point of his sword. “Well, Monsieur Renegade, who holds the spring of the trap now? You have some prayers, I hope. And if there is no priest among your English, we’ll find you one before you swing next sundown.”
Radisson threw up a malignant look, but said nothing; and went on caring for his wound.
“At sunset, remember. You will see to it, Perrot,” he added.
“Pardon me, monsieur,” said the governor. “This is an officer of our company, duly surrendered.”
“Monsieur will know this man is a traitor, and that I have long-standing orders to kill him wherever found. What has monsieur to say for him?” Iberville added, turning to Gering.
“As an officer of the company,” was the reply, “he has the rights of a prisoner of war.”
“Monsieur, we have m............