The Hunting party By John Ritchie
Our canoe, the Raven, slides over the water like a skate on ice.
Behind me, Bertrand, our guide calls the paddle strokes in his native French.
‘Droit, gauche, droit, gauche”
Once we have the rhythm, he entertains us with folk-songs and stories in broken English.
“Mon Dieu!" He says “When first I saw le sauvage I nearly chiez ma cullote!”
He roars with laughter at his own discomfort.
“This man was almost without vêtments and only pantoufles on his feet, yet he moved like un chat.”
When Bertrand pauses for breath, I pass on a translation of the tale to my man-servant Baxter who is at the prow.
Bertrand tells of how he and the Indian looked at one another, both curious, both wary, both ready to fight for their lives.
Then he, Bertrand, stood up straight and dropped his hands to his sides, his musket pointing towards the ground.
The native after a moment’s confusion did likewise. They stood like this for a while, and then the Indian stepped
forward and raised the club he was carrying. Bertrand determined to meet his end bravely, did not move.
The native stepped forward again and tapped Bertrand lightly on the shoulder with the club, then reached out
and took the muzzle of Bertrand’s musket in his other hand and pressed it briefly against his own breast.
They looked at one another a moment longer, then the native turned, and melted into the forest.
‘Mon Dieu! Le sauvage. Manifique.’
We paddle on in silence for a while until curiousity gets the better of me and I ask Bertrand what the incident
with the Indian had signified. He explains to me that the natives seldom fight amongst themselves, but
prove their courage by fighting bear and elk and killing bison. When they meet men from another tribe they exchange
coup, token blows, that are given and taken in silence. Thus they show they do not fear death from the most
dangerous animal of all, and thus they avoid conflicts that could destroy their kind.
While we have been talking the river banks have drawn closer, this must be the Narrow Passage, Bertrand spoke of earlier.
The water is clearer here and I can see there is less than half a fathom of water beneath us.
‘Le rive gauche’, calls Bertrand, and we steer for the left bank. We will camp here for the night and begin hunting in the morning.
Under Bertrand’s guidance we beach our craft on a patch of shingle and once ashore haul the canoe clear of the river.
Bertrand and Baxter begin to lift our packs out of the canoe and I cast around for kindling.
Other parties have camped here before as the spoor of old fires is much in evidence.
What is not in evidence is kindling. It has all been used. I step deeper into the gloaming at the edge of the
forest in search of dead twigs and dried dung.
When the Indian suddenly stands up before me I am stunned into immobility. He seems to have grown out of the ground like some Djinn.
We gaze at one another in silence. His hand and knife are bloody and I realise he has been dressing a kill in the undergrowth.
Searching for firewood I have carelessly stumbled upon a native hunting party. The savage steps towards me and I stand still.
He will either take coup or kill me.
Behind me I hear Bertrand shout, a moment before the savage staggers back bleeding copiously from the throat
and I hear the roar of Baxter’s musket.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/25435/the-hunting-party to download
Behind me, Bertrand, our guide calls the paddle strokes in his native French.
‘Droit, gauche, droit, gauche”
Once we have the rhythm, he entertains us with folk-songs and stories in broken English.
“Mon Dieu!" He says “When first I saw le sauvage I nearly chiez ma cullote!”
He roars with laughter at his own discomfort.
“This man was almost without vêtments and only pantoufles on his feet, yet he moved like un chat.”
When Bertrand pauses for breath, I pass on a translation of the tale to my man-servant Baxter who is at the prow.
Bertrand tells of how he and the Indian looked at one another, both curious, both wary, both ready to fight for their lives.
Then he, Bertrand, stood up straight and dropped his hands to his sides, his musket pointing towards the ground.
The native after a moment’s confusion did likewise. They stood like this for a while, and then the Indian stepped
forward and raised the club he was carrying. Bertrand determined to meet his end bravely, did not move.
The native stepped forward again and tapped Bertrand lightly on the shoulder with the club, then reached out
and took the muzzle of Bertrand’s musket in his other hand and pressed it briefly against his own breast.
They looked at one another a moment longer, then the native turned, and melted into the forest.
‘Mon Dieu! Le sauvage. Manifique.’
We paddle on in silence for a while until curiousity gets the better of me and I ask Bertrand what the incident
with the Indian had signified. He explains to me that the natives seldom fight amongst themselves, but
prove their courage by fighting bear and elk and killing bison. When they meet men from another tribe they exchange
coup, token blows, that are given and taken in silence. Thus they show they do not fear death from the most
dangerous animal of all, and thus they avoid conflicts that could destroy their kind.
While we have been talking the river banks have drawn closer, this must be the Narrow Passage, Bertrand spoke of earlier.
The water is clearer here and I can see there is less than half a fathom of water beneath us.
‘Le rive gauche’, calls Bertrand, and we steer for the left bank. We will camp here for the night and begin hunting in the morning.
Under Bertrand’s guidance we beach our craft on a patch of shingle and once ashore haul the canoe clear of the river.
Bertrand and Baxter begin to lift our packs out of the canoe and I cast around for kindling.
Other parties have camped here before as the spoor of old fires is much in evidence.
What is not in evidence is kindling. It has all been used. I step deeper into the gloaming at the edge of the
forest in search of dead twigs and dried dung.
When the Indian suddenly stands up before me I am stunned into immobility. He seems to have grown out of the ground like some Djinn.
We gaze at one another in silence. His hand and knife are bloody and I realise he has been dressing a kill in the undergrowth.
Searching for firewood I have carelessly stumbled upon a native hunting party. The savage steps towards me and I stand still.
He will either take coup or kill me.
Behind me I hear Bertrand shout, a moment before the savage staggers back bleeding copiously from the throat
and I hear the roar of Baxter’s musket.
Copyright John Ritchie 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/25435/the-hunting-party to download