CHAPTER VI

THE ROARING FORTIES

Keen as an arrow from twanging bowstring, Pierre Radisson set sail over
the roaring seas for the northern bay.

'Twas midsummer before his busy flittings between Acadia and Quebec
brought us to Isle Percée, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence. Here
Chouart Groseillers (his brother-in-law) lay with two of the craziest
craft that ever rocked anchor. I scarce had time to note the bulging
hulls, stout at stem and stern with deep sinking of the waist, before
M. Radisson had climbed the ship's ladder and scattered quick commands
that sent sailors shinning up masts, for all the world like so many
monkeys. The St. Pierre, our ship was called, in honour of Pierre
Radisson; for admiral and captain and trader, all in one, was Sieur
Radisson, himself. Indeed, he could reef a sail as handily as any old
tar. I have seen him take the wheel and hurl Allemand head-foremost
from the pilot-house when that sponge-soaked rascal had imbibed more
gin than was safe for the weathering of rocky coasts.

Call him gamester, liar, cheat--what you will! He had his faults,
which dogged him down to poverty and ruin; but deeds are proof of the
inner man. And look you that judge Pierre Radisson whether your own
deeds ring as mettle and true.

The ironwood capstan bars clanked to that seaman's music of running
sailors. A clattering of the pawls--the anchor came away. The St.
Pierre shook out her bellying sails and the white sheets drew to a full
beam wind. Long foam lines crisped away from the prow. Green shores