The Adventures of Radisson. Back to the New World by Martin Fournier

the slightest sound, like an Iroquois on the warpath. He was positive he would be able to hear bandits talking to each other above the creaking of the wheels and the clip-clop of the hoofs on the path. He clutched his eagle-head knife in one hand, his club in the other. The stones he had gathered rolled about on the floor of the cart. He feared nothing. He had thought of everything.
    â€œKeep at it, Nicolas. We’re going well. We’re going to make it.”
    The spirit of the eagle was watching over him and inspiring him to do the right thing, of that he was sure. Woe betide anyone who crossed their path. He would make mincemeat out of them. The cart moved forward at a right old clip, with barely a bump or a jolt across the even surface. Radisson was thrilled: at last they were moving forward as fast as he had hoped.
    â€œDon’t worry, Nicolas. We’re almost there.”
    Encouraged, the carter gave Buddy a slap with the reins. He could see the light at the end of the forest. Just five hundred metres more. He was going to make it… God have mercy on our souls, he repeated under his breath.
    They came out into the open. The sun was disappearing on the horizon, behind the enormous steeple whose silhouette stood out against the fiery sky. It was still light as they entered the village. The inn welcomed them with open arms.
    Nicolas brushed Buddy again and again by the light of a lantern in the stables. His horse had kept trotting right to the end. He had gotten very warm, but he didn’t look exhausted. The carter was extraordinarily proud of his workmate. For years they had shared everything, good times and bad. They were in it together, almost like man and wife. Radisson hovered close by them since something approaching a state of grace was emanating from Nicolas, visibly surprised and pleased at what he had accomplished. After having seen him so terrorized, it was heartwarming to see him looking so glad.
    â€œThat’s some horse you have there, Nicolas,” Radisson told him, giving Buddy a pat.
    â€œDon’t know a better one.”
    As they shared a meal in the inn, Nicolas tried to sort out his thoughts. Although extremely tired, he felt more gratitude than resentment toward Radisson, who had shown him he was more resourceful than he had ever imagined. This small victory—a considerable one, to him—had given him a taste of freedom and excitement. With a little help from the wine, he felt like he was walking on air.
    Radisson preferred to stay clear of wine. The sight of his brother Ganaha becoming the shadow of himself under the effects of alcohol had left a bad taste in his mouth. He considered it more sensible to keep his wits about him. Paris was still a long way away.
    * * *
    When they arrived in Nantes, Nicolas’ brother-in-law put them up for the night. The innkeeper grimaced without a word of explanation when he heard Radisson was headed to Paris. Radisson, who was in a hurry to get back on the road, was not worried in the slightest. Early the next morning, Nicolas brought him down to the port and showed him where to find the boatmen who were heading upriver.
    Along the quay, a number of lifeless craft were waiting for spring to arrive. A few small fishing boats moved across the estuary. Only a handful of flat-bottomed boats, designed for navigating the Loire, were loaded up with goods and ready to cast off to the towns and villages inland. Since Radisson saw no captain or crew, he had no idea if he would be allowed to board.
    In the distance, a stout man was having trouble rolling a heavy barrel up an incline. He caught Radisson’s eye and Radisson moved closer to get a better look. The man was quite old and swearing like a sailor. Seeing him arrive out of breath at the wharf’s edge, giving the barrel one last shove to stack it next to a dozen more, then sitting down for a quick rest, swearing all the while, Radisson thought to himself that the man was