Unarmed, among the savages, pacifying drunken hostiles at the water-front, bidding Jean and me look after the carriers, in the gateway, helping Sieur de Groseillers to sort the furs—­Pierre Radisson was everywhere.  In the guard-house were more English prisoners than we had crews of French; and in the mess-room sat Governor Brigdar of the Hudson’s Bay Company, who took his captivity mighty ill and grew prodigious pot-valiant over his cups.  Here, too, lolled Ben Gillam, the young New Englander, rumbling out a drunken vengeance against those inland pirates, who had deprived him of the season’s furs.

Once, I mind, when M. Radisson came suddenly on these two worthies, their fuddled heads were close together above the table.

“Look you,” Ben was saying in a big, rasping whisper, “I shot him—­I shot him with a brass button.  The black arts are powerless agen brass.  Devil sink my soul if I didn’t shoot him!  The red—­spattered over the brush——­”

M. Radisson raised a hand to silence my coming.

Ben’s nose poked across the table, closer to Governor Brigdar’s ear.

“But look you, Mister What’s-y-er-name,” says he.

“Don’t you Mister me, you young cub!” interrupts the governor with a pompous show of drunken dignity.

“A fig for Your Excellency,” cries the young blackguard.  “Who’s who when he’s drunk?  As I was a-telling, look you, though the red spattered the bushes, when I run up he’d vanished into air with a flash o’ powder from my musket!  ’Twas by the black arts that nigh hanged him in Boston Town——­”

At that, Governor Brigdar claps his hand to the table and swears that he cares nothing for black arts if only the furs can be found.

“The furs—­aye,” husks Ben, “if we can only find the furs!  An our men hold together, we’re two to one agen the Frenchies——­”

“Ha,” says M. Radisson.  “Give you good-morning, gentlemen, and I hope you find yourselves in health.”

The two heads flew apart like the halves of a burst cannon-shell.  Thereafter, Radisson kept Ben and Governor Brigdar apart.

Of Godefroy and Jack Battle we could learn naught.  Le Borgne would never tell what he and M. Picot had seen that night they rescued me from the hill.  Whether Le Borgne and the hostiles of the massacre lied or no, they both told the same story of Jack.  While the tribe was still engaged in the scalp-dance, some one had untied Jack’s bands.  When the braves went to torture their captive, he had escaped.  But whither had he gone that he had not come back to us?  Like the sea is the northland, full of nameless graves; and after sending scouts far and wide, we gave up all hope of finding the sailor lad.

But in the fort was another whose presence our rough fellows likened to a star flower on the stained ground of some hard-fought battle.  After M. Radisson had quieted turbulent spirits by a reading of holy lessons, Mistress Hortense queened it over our table of a Sunday at noon.  Waiting upon her at either hand were the blackamoor and the negress.  A soldier in red stood guard behind; and every man, officer, and commoner down the long mess-table tuned his manners to the pure grace of her fair face.