CHAPTER XX
PLOTS AND COUNTER-PLOTS
He who would hear that paradox of impossibilities—silence become vocal—must traverse the vast wastes of the prairie by night. As a mother quiets a fretful child, so the illimitable calm lulls tumultuous thoughts. The wind moving through empty solitudes comes with a sigh of unutterable loneliness. Unconsciously, men listen for some faint rustling from the gauzy, wavering streamers that fire northern skies. The dullest ear can almost fancy sounds from the noiseless wheeling of planets through the overspanning vaulted blue; and human speech seems sacrilege.
Though the language of the prairie be not in words, some message is surely uttered; for the people of the plains wear the far-away look of communion with the unseen and the unheard. The fine sensibility of the white woman, perhaps, shows the impress of the vast solitudes most readily, and the gravely repressed nature of the Indian least; but all plain-dwellers have learned to catch the voice of the prairie. I, myself, know the message well, though I may no more put it into words than the song love sings in one's heart. Love, says the poet, is infinite. So is the space of the prairie. That, I suppose, is why both are too boundless for the limitation of speech.
Night after night, with only a grassy swish and deadened tread over the turf breaking stillness, we journeyed northward. Occasionally, like the chirp of cricket in a dry well, life sounded through emptiness. Skulking coyotes, seeking prey among earth mounds, or night hawks, lilting solitarily in vaulted mid-heaven, uttered cries that pierced the vast blue. Owls flapped stupidly up from our horses' feet. Hungry kites wheeled above lonely Indian graves, or perched on the scaffolding, where the dead lay swathed in skins.
Reflecting on my experiences with the Mandanes and the Sioux, I was disposed to upbraid fate as a senseless thing with no thread of purpose through life's hopeless jumble. Now, something in the calm of the plains, or the certainty of our unerring star-guides, quieted my unrest. Besides, was I not returning to one who was peerless? That hope speedily eclipsed all interests. That was purpose enough for my life. Forthwith, I began comparing lustrous gray eyes to the stars, and tracing a woman's figure in the diaphanous northern lights. One face ever gleamed through the dusk at my horse's head and beckoned northward. I do not think her presence left me for an instant on that homeward journey. But, indeed, I should not set down these extravagances, which each may recall in his own case, only I would have others judge whether she influenced me, or I, her.
Thus we traveled northward, journeying by night as long as we were in the Sioux territory. Once in the land of the Assiniboines, we rode day and night to the limit of our horses' endurance. Remembering the Hudson's Bay outrage at the Souris, and having also heard from Mandane runners of a raid planned by our rivals against the North-West fort at Pembina, I steered wide of both places, following the old Missouri trail midway between the Red and Souris rivers. It may have been because we traveled at night, but I did not encounter a single person, native or white, till we came close to the Red and were less than a day's journey from Fort Gibraltar. On the river trail, we overtook some Hudson's Bay trappers. The fellows would not answer a single question about events during the year and scampered away from us as if we carried smallpox, which had thinned the population a few years before.
"That's bad!" said I aloud, as the men fled down the river bank, where we could not follow. Little Fellow looked as solemn as a grave-stone. He shook his head with ominous wisdom that foresees all evil but refuses to prophesy.
"Bother to you, Little Fellow!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean? What's up?"
Again the Indian shook his head with dark mutterings, looking mighty solemn, but he would not share his foreknowledge. We met more Hudson's Bay men, and their conduct was unmistakably suspicious. On a sudden seeing us, they reined up their horses, wheeled and galloped off without a word.
"I don't like that! I emphatically don't!" I piloted my broncho to a slight roll of the prairie, where we could reconnoitre. Distinctly there was the spot where the two rivers met. Intervening shrubbery confused my bearings. I rose in my stirrups, while Little Fellow stood erect on his horse's back.
"Little Fellow!" I cried, exasperated with myself, "Where's Fort Gibraltar? I see where it ought to be, where the towers ought to be higher than that brush, but where's the fort?"
The Indian screened his eyes and gazed forward. Then he came down with a thud, abruptly re-straddling his horse, and uttered one explosive word—"Smoke."
"Smoke? I don't see smoke! Where's the fort?"
"No fort," said he.
"You're daft!" I informed him, with the engaging frankness of a master for a servant. "There—is—a fort, and you know it—we're both lost—that's more! A fine Indian you are, to get lost!"
Little Fellow scrambled with alacrity to the ground. Picking up two small switches, he propped them against each other.
"Fort!" he said, laconically, pointing to the switches.
"L'anglais!" he cried, thrusting out his foot, which signified Hudson's Bay.
"No fort!" he shouted, kicking the switches into the air. "No fort!" and he looked with speechless disgust at the vacancy.
Now I knew what he meant. Fort Gibraltar had been destroyed by Hudson's Bay men. We had no alternative but to strike west along the Assiniboine, on the chance of meeting some Nor'-Westers before reaching the company's quarters at the Portage. That post, too, might be destroyed; but where were Hamilton and Father Holland? Danger, or no danger, I must learn more of the doings in Red River. Also, there were reasons why I wished to visit the settlers of Fort Douglas. We camped on the south side of the Assiniboine a few miles from the Red, and Little Fellow went to some neighboring half-breeds for a canoe.
And a strange story he brought back! A great man, second only to the king—so the half-breeds said—had come from England to rule over Assiniboia. He boasted the shock of his power would be felt from Montreal to Athabasca. He would drive out all Nor'-Westers. This personage, I afterwards learned, was the amiable Governor Semple, who succeeded Captain Miles McDonell. Already, as a hunter chases a deer, had the great governor chased Nor'-Westers from Red River. Did Little Fellow doubt their word? Where was Fort Gibraltar? Let Little Fellow look and see for himself if aught but masonry and charred walls stood where Fort Gibraltar had been! Let him seek the rafters of the Nor-Westers' fort in the new walls of Fort Douglas! Pembina, too, had fallen before the Hudson's Bay men. Since the coming of the great governor, nothing could stand before the English.
But wait! It was not all over! The war drum was beating in the tents of all the Bois-Brulés! The great governor should be taught that even the king's arms could not prevail against the Bois-Brulés! Was there smoke of battle? The Bois-Brulés would be there! The Bois-Brulés had wrongs to avenge. They would not be turned out of their forts for nothing! Knives would be unsheathed. There were full powder-bags! There was a grand gathering of Bois-Brulés at the Portage. They, themselves, were on the way there. Let Little Fellow and the white trader join them! Let them be wary; for the English were watchful! Great things were to be done by the Bois-Brulés before another moon—and Little Fellow's eyes snapped fire as he related their vauntings.
I was inclined to regard the report as a fairy tale. If the half-breeds were arming and the English watchful, the distrust of the Hudson's Bay men was explained. A nomad, himself, the Indian may be willing enough to share running rights over the land of his fathers; but when the newcomer not only usurps possession, but imposes the yoke of laws on the native, the resentment of the dusky race is easily fanned to that point which civilized men call rebellion. I could readily understand how the Hudson's Bay proclamations forbidding the sale of furs to rivals, when these rivals were friends by marriage and treaty with the natives, roused all the bloodthirsty fury of the Indian nature. Nor'-Westers' forts were being plundered. Why should the Bois-Brulés not pillage Hudson's Bay posts? Each company was stealing the cargo of its rival, as boats passed and repassed the different forts. Why should the half-breed not have his share of the booty? The most peace-loving dog can be set a-fighting; and the fight-loving Indian finds it very difficult indeed, to keep the peace. This, the great fur companies had not yet realized; and the lesson was to be driven home to them with irresistible force.
The half-breeds also had news of a priest bringing a delirious man to Fort Douglas. The description seemed to fit Hamilton and Father Holland. Whatever truth might be in the rumors of an uprising, I must ascertain whether or not Frances Sutherland would be safe. Leaving Little Fellow to guard our horses, at sundown I pushed my canoe into the Assiniboine just east of the rapids. Paddling swiftly with the current, I kept close to the south bank, where overhanging willows concealed one side of the river.
As I swung out into the Red, true to the Bois-Brulés' report, I saw only blackened chimneys and ruined walls on the site of Fort Gibraltar. Heading towards the right bank, I hugged the naked cliff on the side opposite Fort Douglas, and trusted the rising mist to conceal me. Thus, I slipped past cannon, pointing threateningly from the Hudson's Bay post, recrossed to the wooded west bank again, and paddled on till I caught a glimpse of a little, square, whitewashed house in a grove of fine old trees. This I knew, from Frances Sutherland's description, was her father's place.
Mooring among the shrubbery I had no patience to hunt for beaten path; but digging my feet into soft clay and catching branches with both hands, I clambered up the cliff and found myself in a thicket not a stone's throw from the door. The house was in darkness. My heart sank at a possibility which hardly framed itself to a thought. Was the apparition in the Mandane lodge some portent? Had I not read, or heard, of departed spirits hovering near loved ones? I had no courage to think more.
Suddenly the door flung open. Involuntarily, I slipped behind the bushes, but dusk hid the approaching figure. Whoever it was made no noise. I felt, rather than heard, her coming, and knew no man could walk so silently. It must be a woman. Then my chest stifled and I heard my own heart-beats. Garments fluttered past the branches of my hiding-place. She of whom I had dreamed by night and thought by day and hoped whether sleeping, or waking, paused, not an arm's length away.
Toying with the tip of the branch, which I was gripping for dear life, she looked languorously through the foliage towards the river. At first I thought myself the victim of another hallucination, but would not stir lest the vision should vanish. She sighed audibly, and I knew this was no spectre. Then I trembled all the more, for my sudden appearance might alarm her.
I should wait until she went back to the house—another of my brave vows to keep myself in hand!—then walk up noisily, giving due warning, and knock at the door. The keeping of that resolution demanded all my strength of will; for she was so near I could have clasped her in my arms without an effort. Indeed, it took a very great effort to refrain from doing so.
"Heigh-ho," said a low voice with the ripple of a sunny brook tinkling over pebbles, "but it's a long day—and a long, long week—and a long, long, long month—and oh!—a century of years since——" and the voice broke in a sigh.
I think—though I would not set this down as a fact—that a certain small foot, which once stamped two strong men into obedience, now vented its impatience at a twig on the grass. By the code of eastern proprieties, I may not say that the dainty toe-tip first kicked the offensive little branch and then crunched it deep in the turf.
"I hate this lonely country," said the voice, with the vim of water-fret against an obstinate stone. "Wonder what it's like in the Mandane land! I'm sure it's nicer there."
Now I affirm there is not a youth living who would not at some time give his right hand to know a woman's exact interpretation of that word "nicer." For my part, it set me clutching the branch with such ferocity, off snapped the thing with the sharp splintering of a breaking stick. The voice gave a gasp and she jumped aside with nervous trepidation.
"Whatever—was that? I am—not frightened." No one was accusing her. "I won't go in! I won't let myself be frightened! There! The very idea!" And three or four sharp stamps followed in quick succession; but she was shivering.
"I declare the house is so lonely, a ghost would be live company." And she looked doubtfully from the dark house to the quivering poplars. "I'd rather be out here with the tree-toads and owls and bats than in there alone, even if they do frighten me! Anyway, I'm not frightened! It's just some stupid hop-and-go-spring thing at the base of our brains that makes us jump at mice and rats." But the hands interlocking at her back twitched and clasped and unclasped in a way that showed the automatic brain-spring was still active.
"It's getting worse every day. I can't stand it much longer, looking and looking till I'm half blind and no one but Indian riders all day long. Why doesn't he come? Oh! I know something is wrong."
"Afraid of the Metis," thought I, "and expecting her father. A fine father to leave his daughter alone in the house with the half-breeds threatening a raid. She needs some one else to take care of her." This, on after thought, I know was unjust to her father; for pioneers obey necessity first and chivalry second.
"If he would only come!" she repeated in a half whisper.
"Hope he doesn't," thought I.
"For a week I've been dreaming such fearful things! I see him sinking in green water, stretching his hands to me and I can't reach out to save him. On Sunday he seemed to be running along a black, awful precipice. I caught him in my arms to hold him back, but he dragged me over and I screamed myself awake. Sometimes, he is in a black cave and I can't find any door to let him out. Or he lies bound in some dungeon, and when I stoop to cut the cords, he begins to sink down, down, down through the dark, where I can't follow. I leap after him and always waken with such a dizzy start. Oh! I know he has been in trouble. Something is wrong! His thoughts are reaching out to me and I am so gross and stupid I can't hear what his spirit says. If I could only get away from things, the clatter of everyday things that dull one's inner hearing, perhaps I might know! I feel as if he spoke in a foreign language, but the words he uses I can't make out. All to-day, he has seemed so near! Why does he not come home to me?"
"Mighty fond daughter," thought I, with a jealous pang. She was fumbling among the intricate draperies, where women conceal pockets, and presently brought out something in the palm of her hand.
"I wouldn't have him know how foolish I am," and she laid the thing gently against her cheek.
Now I had never given Frances Sutherland a gift of any sort whatever; and my heart was pierced with anguish that cannot be described. I was, indeed, falling over a precipice and her arms were not holding me back but dragging me over. Would that I, like the dreamer, could awaken with a start. In all conscience, I was dizzy enough; and every pressure of that hateful object to her face bound me faster in a dungeon of utter hopelessness. My sweet day-dreams and midnight rhapsodies trooped back to mock at me. I felt that I must bow broken under anguish or else steel myself and shout back cynical derision to the whole wan troop of torturing regrets. And all the time, she was caressing that thing in her hand and looking down at it with a fondness, which I—poor fool—thought that I alone could inspire. I suppose if I could have crept away unobserved, I would have gone from her presence hardened and embittered; but I must play out the hateful part of eavesdropper to the end.
She opened the hand to feast her eyes on the treasure, and I craned forward, playing the sneak without a pang of shame, but the dusk foiled me.
Then the low, mellow, vibrant tones, whose very music would have intoxicated duller fools than I—'tis ever a comfort to know there are greater fools—broke in melody: "To my own dear love from her ever loyal and devoted knight," and she held her opened hand high. 'Twas my birch-bark message which Father Holland had carried north. I suddenly went insane with a great overcharge of joy, that paralyzed all motion.
"Dear love—wherever are you?" asked a voice that throbbed with longing.
Can any man blame me for breaking through the thicket and my resolution and discretion and all?
"Here—beloved!" I sprang from the bush.
She gave a cry of affright and would have fallen, but my arms were about her and my lips giving silent proof that I was no wraith.
What next we said I do not remember. With her head on my shoulder and I doing the only thing a man could do to stem her tears, I completely lost track of the order of things. I do not believe either of us was calm enough for words for some time after the meeting. It was she who regained mental poise first.
"Rufus!" she exclaimed, breaking away from me, "You're not a sensible man at all."
"Never said I was," I returned.
"If you do that," she answered, ignoring my remark and receding farther, "I'll never stop crying."
"Then cry on forever!"
With womanly ingratitude, she promptly called me "a goose" and other irrelevant names.
The rest of our talk that evening I do not intend to set down. In the first place, it was best understood by only two. In the second, it could not be transcribed; and in the third, it was all a deal too sacred.
We did, however, become impersonal for short intervals.
"I feel as if there were some storm in the air," said Frances Sutherland. "The half-breeds are excited. They are riding past the settlement in scores every day. O, Rufus, I know something is wrong."
"So do I," was my rejoinder. I was thinking of the strange gossip of the Assiniboine encampment.
"Do you think the Bois-Brulés would plunder your boats?" she asked innocently, ignorant that the malcontents were Nor'-Westers.
"No," said I. "What boats?"
"Why, Nor'-West boats, of course, coming up Red River from Fort William to go up the Assiniboine for the winter's supplies. They're coming in a few days. My father told me so."
"Is Mr. Sutherland an H. B. C. or Nor'-Wester?" I asked in the slang of the company talk.
"I don't know," she answered. "I don't think he knows himself. He says there are numbers of men like that, and they all know there is to be a raid. Why, Rufus, there are men down the river every day watching for the Nor'-Westers' Fort William express." "Where do the men come from?" I questioned, vainly trying to patch some connection between plots for a raid on North-West boats and plots for a fight by Nor'-West followers.
"From Fort Douglas, of course."
"H. B. C.'s, my dear. You must go to Fort Douglas at once. There will be a fight. You must go to-morrow with your father, or with me to-night," I urged, thinking I should take myself off and notify my company of the intended pillaging.
"With you?" she laughed. "Father will be home in an hour. Are you sure about a fight!"
"Quite," said I, trembling for her safety. This certainty of mine has been quoted to prove premeditation on the Nor'-Westers' part; but I meant nothing of the sort. I only felt there was unrest on both sides, and that she must be out of harm's way.
Truly, I have seldom had a harder duty to perform than to leave Frances alone in that dark house to go and inform my company of the plot.
Many times I said good-by before going to the canoe and times unnumbered ran back from the river to repeat some warning and necessitate another farewell.
"Rufus, dear," she said, "this is about the twentieth time. You mustn't come back again."
"Then good-by for the twenty-first," said I, and came away feeling like a young priest anointed for some holy purpose.
I declare now, as I declared before the courts of the land, that in hastening to the Portage with news of the Hudson's Bay's intention to intercept the Nor'-Westers' express from Fort William, I had no other thought but the faithful serving of my company. I knew what suffering the destruction of Souris had entailed in Athabasca, and was determined our brave fellows should not starve in the coming winter through my negligence.
Could I foresee that simple act of mine was to let loose all the punishment the Hudson's Bay had been heaping up against the day of judgment?
CHAPTER XXI
LOUIS PAYS ME BACK
What tempted me to moor opposite the ruins of Fort Gibraltar? What tempts the fly into the spider's web and the fish with a wide ocean for play-ground into one small net? I know there is a consoling fashion of ascribing our blunders to the inscrutable wisdom of a long-suffering Providence; but common-sense forbids I should call evil good, deify my errors, and give thanks for what befalls me solely through my own fault.
Bare posts hacked to the ground were all that remained of Fort Gibraltar's old wall. I had not gone many paces across the former courtyard, when voices sounded from the gravel-pit that had once done duty as a cellar. The next thing I noticed was the shaggy face of Louis Laplante bobbing above the ground. With other vagabond wanderers, the Frenchman had evidently been rummaging old Nor'-West vaults.
"Tra-la, comrade," he shouted, leaping out of the cellar as soon as he saw me. "I, Louis Laplante, son of a seigneur, am resurrecting. I was a Plante! Now I'm a Louis d'or, fresh coined from the golden vein of dazzling wit. Once we were men, but they drowned us in a wine-barrel like your lucky dog of an English prince. Now we're earth-goblins re-incarnate! Behold gnomes of the mine! Knaves of the nethermost depths, tra-la! Vampires that suck the blood of whisky-cellars and float to the skies with dusky wings and dizzy heads! Laugh with us, old solemncholy! See the ground spin! Laugh, I say, or be a hitching-post, and we'll dance the May-pole round you! We're vampires, comrade, and you're our cousin, for you're a bat," and Louis applauded his joke with loud, tipsy laughter and staggered up to me drunk as a lord. His heavy breath and bloodshot eyes testified what he had found under the rubbish heaps of Fort Gibraltar's cellar. Embracing me with the affection of a long-lost brother, he rattled on with a befuddled, meaningless jargon.
"So the knife cut well, did it? And the Sioux did not eat you by inches, beginning with your thumbs? Ha! Très bien! Very good taste! You were not meant for feasts, my solemncholy? Some men are monuments. That's you, mine frien'! Some are champagne bottles that uncork, zip, fizz, froth, stars dancing round your head! That's me! 'Tis I, Louis Laplante, son of a seigneur, am that champagne bottle!"
Pausing for breath, he drew himself erect with ridiculous pomposity. Now there are times when the bravest and wisest thing a brave and wise man can do is take to his heels. I have heard my Uncle Jack MacKenzie say that vice and liquor and folly are best frustrated by flight; and all three seemed to be embodied in Louis Laplante that night. A stupid sort of curiosity made me dally with the mischief brewing in him, just as the fly plays with the spider-web, or the fish with a baited hook.
"There's a fountain-spout in Nor'-West vaults for those who know where to tap the spigot, eh, Louis?" I asked.
"I'm a Hudson's Bay man and to the conqueror comes the tribute," returned Louis, sweeping me a courtly bow.
"I hope such a generous conqueror draws all the tribute he deserves. Do you remember how you saved my life twice from the Sioux, Louis?"
"Generous," shouted the Frenchman, drawing himself up proudly, "generous to mine enemy, always magnificent, grand, superb, as becomes the son of a seigneur! Now I pay you back, rich, well, generous."
"Nonsense, Louis," I expostulated. "'Tis I who am in your debt. I owe you my life twice over. How shall I pay you?" and I made to go down to my canoe.
"Pay me?" demanded Louis, thrusting himself across my path in a menacing attitude. "Stand and pay me like a man!"
"I am standing," I laughed. "Now, how shall I pay you?"
"Strike!" ordered Louis, launching out a blow which I barely missed. "Strike, I say, for kicking me, the son of a seigneur, like a pig!"
At that, half a dozen more drunken vagabonds of the Hudson's Bay service reeled up from the cellar pit; and I began to understand I was in for as much mischief as a young man could desire. The fellows were about us in a circle, and now, that it was too late, I was quite prepared like the fly and the fish to seek safety in flight.
"Sink his canoe," suggested one; and I saw that borrowed craft swamped.
"Strike! Sacredie! I pay you back generous," roared Louis. "How can I, Louis Laplante, son of a seigneur, strike a man who won't hit back?"
"And how can I strike a man who saved my life?" I urged, trying to mollify him. "See here, Louis, I'm on a message for my company to-night. I can't wait. Some other day you can pay me all you like—not to-night, some-other-time——"
"Some-oder-time! No—never! Some-oder-time—'tis the way I pay my own debts, always some-oder-time, and I never not pay at all. You no some-oder-time me, comrade! Louis knows some-oder-time too well! He quit his cups some-oder-time and he never quit, not at all! He quit wild Indian some-oder-time, and he never quit, not at all! And he go home and say his confess to the curé some-oder-time, and he never go, not at all! And he settle down with a wife and become a grand seigneur some-oder-time, and he never settle down at all!"
"Good night, Laplante! I have business for the company. I must go," I interrupted, trying to brush through the group that surrounded us.
"So have we business for the company, the Hudson's Bay Company, and you can't go," chimed in one of the least intoxicated of the rival trappers; and they closed about me so that I had not striking room.
"Are you men looking for trouble?" I asked, involuntarily fingering my pistol belt.
"No—we're looking for the Nor'-West brigade billed to pass from Fort William to Athabasca," jeered the boldest of the crowd, a red-faced, middle-aged man with blear eyes. "We're looking for the Nor'-Westers' express," and he laughed insolently.
"You don't expect to find our brigades in Fort Gibraltar's cellar," said I, backing away from them and piecing this latest information to what I had already heard of plots and conspiracies.
Forthwith I felt strong hands gripping both my arms like a vise and the coils of a rope were about me with the swiftness of a lasso. My first impulse was to struggle against the outrage; but I was beginning to learn the service of open ears and a closed mouth was often more valuable than a fighter's blows. Already I had ascertained from their own lips that the Hudson's Bay intended to molest our north-bound brigade.
"Well," said I, with a laugh, which surprised the rascals mightily, "now you've captured your elephant, what do you propose to do with him?"
Without answering, the men shambled down to the landing place of the fort, jostling me along between the red-faced man and Louis Laplante.
"I consider this a scurvy trick, Louis," said I. "You've let me into a pretty scrape with your idiotic heroics about paying back a fancied grudge. To save a mouse from the tigers, Louis, and then feed him to your cats! Fie, man! I like your son-of-a-seigneur ideas of honor!"
"Ingrate! Low-born ingrate," snapped the Frenchman, preparing to strike one of his dramatic attitudes, "if I were not the son of a seigneur, and you a man with bound arms, you should swallow those words," and he squared up to me for a second time. "If you won't fight, you shan't run away——"
"Off with your French brag," ordered the soberest of the Hudson's Bay men, catching Louis by the scruff of his coat and spinning him out of the way. "There'll be neither fighting nor running away. It is to Fort Douglas we'll take our fine spy."
The words stung, but I muffled my indignation.
"I'll go with pleasure," I returned, thinking that Frances Sutherland and Hamilton and Father Holland were good enough company to compensate for any captivity. "With pleasure, and 'tis not the first time I'll have found friends in the Hudson's Bay fort."
At that speech, the red-faced man, who seemed to be the ringleader, eyed me narrowly. We all embarked on a rickety raft, that would, I declare, have drowned any six sober men who risked their lives on it; but drunk men and children seem to do what sober, grown folk may not are.
How Louis Laplante was for fighting a duel en route with the man, who spoke of "French brag" and was only dissuaded from his purpose by the raft suddenly teetering at an angle of forty-five degrees with the water, which threatened to toboggan us all into mid-river; how I was then stationed in the centre and the other men distributed equally on each side of the raft to maintain balance; how we swung out into the Red, rocking with each shifting of the crew and were treated to a volley of objurgations from the red-faced man—I do not intend to relate. This sort of melodrama may be seen wherever there are drunken men, a raft and a river. The men poled only fitfully, and we were driven solely by the current. It was dark long before we had neared Fort Douglas and the waters swished past with an inky, glassy sheen that vividly recalled the murky pool about the beaver-dam. And yet I had no fear, but drifted along utterly indifferent to the termination of the freakish escapade in which I had become involved. Nature mercifully sets a limit to human capacity for suffering; and I felt I had reached that limit. Nothing worse could happen than had happened, at least, so I told myself, and I awaited with cynical curiosity what might take place inside the Hudson's Bay fort. Then a shaft of lantern light pierced the dark, striking aslant the river, and the men began poling hard for Fort Douglas wharf. We struck the landing with a bump, disembarked, passed the sentinel at the gate and were at the entrance to the main building.
"You kick me here," said Louis. "I pay you back here!"
"What are you going to do with him?" asked the soberest man of the red-faced leader.
"Hand him over to Governor Semple for a spy."
"The governor's abed. Besides, they don't want him about to hear H. B. secrets when the Nor'-West brigade's a-coming! You'd better get sobered up, yez hed! That's my advice to yez, before going to Governor Semple," and the prudent trapper led the way inside. To the fore was the main stairway, on the right the closed store, and on the left a small apartment which the governor had fitted up as a private office. For some unaccountable reason—the same reason, I suppose, that mischief is always awaiting the mischief-maker—the door to this office had been left ajar and a light burned inside. 'Twas Louis, ever alert, when mischief was abroad, who tip-toed over to the open door, poked his head in and motioned his drunken companions across the sacred precincts of Governor Semple's private room. I was loath to be a party to this mad nonsense, but the fly and the fish should have thought of results before venturing too near strange coils. The red-faced fellow gave me a push. The sober man muttered, "Better come, or they'll raise a row," and we were all within the forbidden place, the door shut and bolted.
To city folk, used to the luxuries of the east, I dare say that office would have seemed mean enough. But the men had been so long away from leather chairs, hair-cloth sofa, wall mirror, wine decanter and other odds and ends which furnish a gentleman's living apartments that the very memory of such things had faded, and that small room, with its old-country air, seemed the vestibule to another world.
"Sump—too—uss—ain't it?" asked the sober man with bated breath and obvious distrust of his tongue.
"Mag—nee—feque! M. Louis Laplante, look you there," cried the Frenchman, catching sight of his full figure in the mirror and instantly striking a pose of admiration. Then he twirled fiercely at both ends of his mustache till it stood out with the wire finish of a Parisian dandy.
The red-faced fellow had permitted me, with arms still tied, to walk across the room and sit on the hair-cloth sofa. He was lolling back in the governor's armchair, playing the lord and puffing one of Mr. Semple's fine pipes.
"We are gentlemen adventurers of the ancient and honorable Hudson's Bay Company, gentlemen adventurers," he roared, bringing his fist down with a thud on the desk. "We hereby decree that the Fort William brigade be captured, that the whisky be freely given to every dry-throated lad in the Hudson's Bay Company, that the Nor'-Westers be sent down the Red on a raft, that this meeting raftify this dissolution, afterwards moving—seconding—and unanimously amending——"
"Adjourning—you mean," interrupted one of the orator's audience.
"I say," called one, who had been dazed by the splendor, "how do you tell which is the lookin' glass and which is the window?" And he looked from the window on one side to its exact reflection, length and width, directly opposite.
The puzzle was left unsolved; for just then Louis Laplante found a flask of liquor and speedily divided its contents among the crowd—which was not calculated to clear up mysteries of windows and mirrors among those addle-pates. Dull wit may be sport for drunken men, but it is mighty flat to an onlooker, and I was out of patience with their carousal.
"The governor will be back here presently, Louis," said I.
"Tired of being a tombstone, ha—ha! Better be a champagne bottle!" he laughed with slightly thickened articulation and increased unsteadiness in his gait.
"If you don't hide that bottle in your hand, there'll be a big head and a sore head for you men to-morrow morning." I rose to try and get them out of the office; but a sober man with tied arms among a drunken crew is at a disadvantage.
"Ha—old—wise—sh—head! To—be—sh—shure! Whur—d'—y'—hide—it?"
"Throw it out of the window," said I, without the slightest idea of leading him into mischief.
"Whish—whish—ish—the window, Rufush?" asked Louis imploringly.
The last potion had done its work and Louis was passing from the jovial to the pensive stage. He would presently reach a mood which might be ugly enough for a companion in bonds. Was it this prospect, I wonder, or the mischievous spirit pervading the very air from the time I reached the ruins that suggested a way out of my dilemma?
"Throw it out of the window," said I, ignoring his question and shoving him off.
"Whish—ish—the window—dammie?" he asked, holding the bottle irresolutely and looking in befuddled distraction from side to side of the room.
"Thur—both—windows—fur as I see," said the man, who had been sober, but was no longer so.
"Throw it through the back window! Folks comin' in at the door won't see it."
The red-faced man got up to investigate, and all faith in my plan died within me; but the lantern light was dusky and the red-faced man could no longer navigate a course from window to mirror.
"There's a winder there," said he, scratching his head and looking at the window reflected in perfect proportion on the mirrored surface.
"And there's a winder there," he declared, pointing at the real window. "They're both winders and they're both lookin'-glasses, for I see us all in both of them. This place is haunted. Lem-me out!"
"Take thish, then," cried Louis, shoving the bottle towards him and floundering across to the door to bar the way. "Take thish, or tell me whish—ish—the window."
"Both winders, I tell you, and both lookin'-glasses," vowed the man. The other four fellows declined to express an opinion for the very good reason that two were asleep and two befuddled beyond questioning.
"See here, Louis," I exclaimed, "there's only one way to tell where to throw that bottle."
"Yesh, Rufush," and he came to me as if I were his only friend on earth.
"The bottle will go through the window and it won't go through the mirror," I began.
"Dammie—I knew that," he snapped out, ready to weep.
"Well—you undo these things," nodding to the ropes about my arms, "and I'll find out which opens, and the one that opens is the window, and you can throw out the bottle."
"The very thing, Rufush, wise—sh—head—old—old—ol' solemncholy," and he ripped the ropes off me.
Now I offer no excuse for what I did. I could have opened that window and let myself out some distance ahead of the bottle, without involving Louis and his gang in greater mischief. What I did was not out of spite to the governor of a rival company; but mischief, as I said, was in the very air. Besides, the knaves had delayed me far into midnight, and I had no scruples about giving each twenty-four hours in the fort guardroom. I took a precautionary inspection of the window-sash. Yes, I was sure I could leap through, carrying out sash and all.
"Hurry—ol' tombshtone—governor—sh-comin'," urged Louis.
I made towards the window and fumbled at the sash.
"This doesn't open," said I, which was quite true, for I did not try to budge it. Then I went across to the mirror. "Neither does this," said I.
"Wha'—wha'—'ll—we do—Rufush?"
"I'll tell you. You can jump through a window but not through a glass. Now you count—one two—three,"—this to the red-faced man—"and when you say 'three' I'll give a run and jump. If I fall back, you'll know it's the mirror, and fling the bottle quick through the other. Ready, count!"
"One," said the red-faced man.
Louis raised his arm and I prepared for a dash.
"Two!"
Louis brought back his arm to gain stronger sweep.
"Three!"
I gave a leap and made as though I had fallen back. There was the pistol-shot splintering of bottle and mirror crashing down to the floor. The window frame gave with a burst, and I was outside rushing past the sleepy sentinel, who poured out a volley of curses after me.
CHAPTER XXII
A DAY OF RECKONING
As well play pussy-wants-a-corner with a tiger as make-believe war with an Indian. In both cases the fun may become ghastly earnest with no time for cry-quits. So it was with the great fur-trading companies at the beginning of this century. Each held the Indian in subjection and thought to use him with daring impunity against its rival. And each was caught in the meshes of its own merry game.
I, as a Nor'-Wester, of course, consider that the lawless acts of the Hudson's Bay had been for three years educating the natives up to the tragedy of June 19, 1816. But this is wholly a partisan, opinion. Certainly both companies have lied outrageously about the results of their quarrels. The truth is Hudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers were playing war with the Indian. Consequences having exceeded all calculation, both companies would fain free themselves of blame.
For instance, it has been said the Hudson's Bay people had no intention of intercepting the North-West brigade bound up the Red and Assiniboine for the interior—this assertion despite the fact our rivals had pillaged every North-West fort that could be attacked. Now I acknowledge the Nor'-Westers disclaim hostile purpose in the rally of three hundred Bois-Brulés to the Portage; but this sits not well with the warlike appearance of these armed plain rangers, who sallied forth to protect the Fort William express. Nor does it agree with the expectations of the Indian rabble, who flocked on our rear like carrion birds keen for the spoils of battle. Both companies had—as it were—leveled and cocked their weapon. To send it off needed but a spark, and a slight misunderstanding ignited that spark.
My arrival at the Portage had the instantaneous effect of sending two strong battalions of Bois-Brulés hot-foot across country to meet the Fort William express before it could reach Fort Douglas. They were to convoy it overland to a point on the Assiniboine where it could be reshipped. To the second of these parties, I attached myself. I was anxious to attempt a visit to Hamilton. There was some one else whom I hoped to find at Fort Douglas; so I refused to rest at the Portage, though I had been in my saddle almost constantly for twenty days.
When we set out, I confess I did not like the look of things. Those Indians smeared with paint and decked out with the feathered war-cap kept increasing to our rear. There were the eagles! Where was the carcass? The presence of these sinister fellows, hot with the lust of blood, had ominous significance. Among the half-breeds there was unconcealed excitement.
Shortly before we struck off the Assiniboine trail northward for the Red, in order to meet the expected brigade beyond Fort Douglas, some of our people slipped back to the Indian rabble. When they reappeared, they were togged out in native war-gear with too many tomahawks and pistols for the good of those who might interfere with our mission. There was no misunderstanding the ugly temper of the men. Here, I wish to testify that explicit orders were given for the forces to avoid passing near Fort Douglas, or in any way provoking conflict. There was placed in charge of our division the most powerful plain-ranger in the service of the company, the one person of all others, who might control the natives in case of an outbreak—and that man was Cuthbert Grant. Pierre, the minstrel, and six clerks were also in the party; but what could a handful of moderate men do with a horde of Indians and Metis wrought up to a fury of revenge?
"Now, deuce take those rascals! What are they doing?" exclaimed Grant angrily, as we left the river trail and skirted round a slough of Frog Plains on the side remote from Fort Douglas. Our forces were following in straggling disorder. The first battalions of the Bois-Brulés, which had already rounded the marsh, were now in the settlement on Red River bank. It was to them that Grant referred. Commanding a halt and raising his spy-glass, he took an anxious survey of the foreground.
"There's something seriously wrong," he said. "Strikes me we're near a powder mine! Here, Gillespie, you look!" He handed the field-glass to me.
A great commotion was visible among the settlers. Ox-carts packed with people were jolting in hurried confusion towards Fort Douglas. Behind, tore a motley throng of men, women and children, running like a frightened flock of sheep. Whatever the cause of alarm, our men were not molesting them; for I watched the horsemen proceeding leisurely to the appointed rendezvous, till the last rider disappeared among the woods of the river path.
"Scared! Badly scared! That's all, Grant," said I. "You've no idea what wild stories are going the rounds of the settlement about the Bois-Brulés!"
"And you've no idea, young man, what wild stories are going the rounds of the Bois-Brulés about the settlement," was Grant's moody reply.
My chance acquaintance with the Assiniboine encampment had given me some idea, but I did not tell Grant so.
"Perhaps they've taken a few old fellows prisoners to ensure the fort's good behavior, while we save our bacon," I suggested.
"If they have, those Highlanders will go to Fort Douglas shining bald as a red ball," answered the plain-ranger.
In this, Grant did his people injustice; for of those prisoners taken by the advance guard, not a hair of their heads was injured. The warden was nervously apprehensive. This was unusual with him; and I have since wondered if his dark forebodings arose from better knowledge of the Bois-Brulés than I possessed, or from some premonition.
"There'd be some reason for uneasiness, if you weren't here to control them, Grant," said I, nodding towards the Indians and Metis.
"One man against a host! What can I do?" he asked gloomily.
"Good gracious, man! Do! Why, do what you came to do! Whatever's the matter with you?"
The swarthy face had turned a ghastly, yellowish tint and he did not answer.
"'Pon my honor," I exclaimed. "Are you ill, man?"
"'Tisn't that! When I went to sleep, last night, there were—corpses all round me. I thought I was in a charnel house and——"
"Good gracious, Grant!" I shuddered out. "Don't you go off your head next! Leave that for us green chaps! Besides, the Indians were raising stench enough with a dog-stew to fill any brain with fumes. For goodness' sake, let's go on, meet those fellows with the brigade, secure that express and get off this 'powder mine'—as you call it."
"By all means!" Grant responded, giving the order, and we moved forward but only at snail pace; for I think he wanted to give the settlers plenty of time to reach the fort.
By five o'clock in the afternoon we had almost rounded the slough and were gradually closing towards the wooded ground of the river bank. We were within ear-shot of the settlers. They were flying past with terrified cries of "The half-breeds! The half-breeds!" when I heard Grant groan from sheer alarm and mutter—
"Look! Look! The lambs coming to meet the wolves!"
To this day I cannot account for the madness of the thing. There, some twenty, or thirty Hudson's Bay men—mere youths most of them—were coming with all speed to head us off from the river path, at a wooded point called Seven Oaks. What this pigmy band thought it could do against our armed men, I do not know. The blunder on their part was so unexpected and inexcusable, it never dawned on us the panic-stricken settlers had spread a report of raid, and these poor valiant defenders had come out to protect the colony. If that be the true explanation of their rash conduct in tempting conflict, what were they thinking about to leave the walls of their fort during danger? My own opinion is that with Lord Selkirk's presumptuous claims to exclusive possession in Red River and the recent high-handed success of the Hudson's Bay, the men of Fort Douglas were so flushed with pride they did not realize the risk of a brush with the Bois-Brulés. Much, too, may be attributed to Governor Semple's inexperience; but it was very evident the purpose of the force deliberately blocking our path was not peaceable. If the Hudson's Bay blundered in coming out to challenge us, so did we, I frankly admit; for we regarded the advance as an audacious trick to hold us back till the Fort William express could be captured.
Now that the thing he feared had come, all hesitancy vanished from Grant's manner. Steeled and cool like the leader he was, he sternly commanded the surging Metis to keep back. Straggling Indians and half-breeds dashed to our fore-ranks with the rush of a tempest and chafed hotly against the warden. At a word from Grant, the men swung across the enemy's course sickle-shape; but they were furious at this disciplined restraint. From horn to horn of the crescent, rode the plain-ranger, lashing horses back to the circle and shaking his fist in the quailing face of many a bold rebel.
Both sides advanced within a short distance of each other. We could see that Governor Semple, himself, was leading the Hudson's Bay men. Immediately, Boucher, a North-West clerk, was sent forward to parley. Now, I hold the Nor'-Westers would not have done that if their purpose had been hostile; but Boucher rode out waving his hand and calling—
"What do you want? What do you want?"
"What do you want, yourself?" came Governor Semple's reply with some heat and not a little insolence.
"We want our fort," demanded Boucher, slightly taken aback, but thoroughly angered. His horse was prancing restively within pistol range of the governor.
"Go to your fort, then! Go to your fort!" returned Semple with stinging contempt in manner and voice.
He might as well have told us to go to Gehenna; for the fort was scattered to the four winds.
"The fool!" muttered Grant. "The fool! Let him answer for the consequences. Their blood be on their own heads."
Whether the Bois-Brulés, who had lashed their horses into a lather of foam and were cursing out threats in the ominous undertone that precedes a storm-burst, now encroached upon the neutral ground in spite of Grant, or were led gradually forward by the warden as the Hudson's Bay governor's hostility increased, I did not in the excitement of the moment observe. One thing is certain, while the quarrel between the Hudson's Bay governor and the North-West clerk was becoming more furious, our surging cohorts were closing in on the little band like an irresistible tidal wave. I could make out several Hudson's Bay faces, that seemed to remind me of my Fort Douglas visit; but of the rabble of Nor'-Westers and Bois-Brulés disguised in hideous war-gear, I dare avow not twenty of us were recognizable.
"Miserable rogue!" Boucher was shouting, utterly beside himself with rage and flourishing his gun directly over the governor's head, "Miserable rogue! Why have you destroyed our fort?"
"Call him off, Grant! Call him off, or it's all up!" I begged, seeing the parley go from bad to worse; but Grant was busy with the Bois-Brulés and did not hear.
"Wretch!" Governor Semple exclaimed in a loud voice. "Dare you to speak so to me!" and he caught Boucher's bridle, throwing the horse back on its haunches.
Boucher, agile as a cat, slipped to the ground.
"Arrest him, men!" commanded the governor. "Arrest him at once!"
But the clerk was around the other side of the horse, with his gun leveled across its back.
Whether, when Boucher jumped down, our bloodthirsty knaves thought him shot and broke from Grant's control to be avenged, or whether Lieutenant Holt of the Hudson's Bay at that unfortunate juncture discharged his weapon by accident, will never be known.
Instantaneously, as if by signal, our men with a yell burst from the ranks, leaped from their saddles and using horses as breast-work, fired volley after volley into the governor's party. The neighing and plunging of the frenzied horses added to the tumult. The Hudson's Bay men were shouting out incoherent protest; but what they said was drowned in the shrill war-cry of the Indians. Just for an instant, I thought I recognized one particular voice in that shrieking babel, which flashed back memory of loud, derisive laughter over a camp fire and at the buffalo hunt; but all else was forgotten in the terrible consciousness that our men's murderous onslaught was deluging the prairie with innocent blood.
Throwing himself between the Bois-Brulés and the retreating band, the warden implored his followers to grant truce. As well plead with wild beasts. The half-breeds were deaf to commands, and in vain their leader argued with blows. The shooting had been of a blind sort, and few shots did more than wound; but the natives were venting the pent-up hate of three years and would give no quarter. From musketry volleys the fight had become hand-to-hand butchery.
I had dismounted and was beating the scoundrels back with the butt end of my gun, begging, commanding, abjuring them to desist, when a Hudson's Bay youth swayed forward and fell wounded at my feet. There was the baffled, anguished scream of some poor wounded fellow driven to bay, and I saw Laplante across the field, covered with blood, reeling and staggering back from a dozen red-skin furies, who pressed upon their fagged victim, snatching at his throat like hounds at the neck of a beaten stag. With a bound across the prostrate form of the youth, I ran to the Frenchman's aid. Louis saw me coming and struck out so valiantly, the wretched cowards darted back just as I have seen a miserable pack of open-mouthed curs dodge the last desperate sweep of antlered head. That gave me my chance, and I fell on their rear with all the might I could put in my muscle, bringing the flat of my gun down with a crash on crested head-toggery, and striking right and left at Louis' assailants.
"Ah—mon Dieu—comrade," sobbed Louis, falling in my arms from sheer exhaustion, while the tears trickled down in a white furrow over his blood-splashed cheeks, "mon Dieu—comrade, but you pay me back generous!"
"Tutts, man, this is no time for settling old scores and playing the grand! Run for your life. Run to the woods and swim the river!" With that, I flung him from me; for I heard the main body of our force approaching. "Run," I urged, giving the Frenchman a push.
"The run—ha—ha—my old spark," laughed Louis with a tearful, lack-life sort of mirth, "the run—it has all run out," and with a pitiful reel down he fell in a heap.
I caught him under the armpits, hoisted him to my shoulders, and made with all speed for the wooded river bank. My pace was a tumble more than a run down the river cliff, but I left the man at the very water's edge, where he could presently strike out for the far side and regain Fort Douglas by swimming across again. Then I hurried to the battle-field in search of the wounded youth whom I had left. As I bent above him, the poor lad rolled over, gazing up piteously with the death-look on his face; and I recognized the young Nor'-Wester who had picked flowers with me for Frances Sutherland and afterwards deserted to the Hudson's Bay. The boy moaned and moved his lips as if speaking, but I heard no sound. Stooping on one knee, I took his head on the other and bent to listen; but he swooned away. Afraid to leave him—for the savages were wreaking indescribable barbarities on the fallen—I picked him up. His arms and head fell back limply as if he were dead, and holding him thus, I again dashed for the fringe of woods. Rogers of the Hudson's Bay staggered against me wounded, with both hands thrown up ready to surrender. He was pleading in broken French for mercy; but two half-breeds, one with cocked pistol, the other with knife, rushed upon him. I turned away that I might not see; but the man's unavailing entreaties yet ring in my ears. Farther on, Governor Semple lay, with lacerated arm and broken thigh. He was calling to Grant, "I'm not mortally wounded! If you could get me conveyed to the fort I think I would live!"
Then I got away from the field and laid my charge in the woods. Poor lad! The pallor of death was on every feature. Tearing open his coat and taking letters from an inner pocket to send to relatives, I saw a knife-stab in his chest, which no mortal could survive. Battle is pitiless. I hurriedly left the dying boy and went back to the living, ordering a French half-breed to guard him.
"See that no one mutilates this body," said I, "and I'll reward you."
My shout seemed to recall the lad's consciousness. Whether he fully understood the terrible significance of my words, I could not tell; but he opened his eyes with a reproachful glazed stare; and that was the last I saw of him.
Knowing Grant would have difficulty in obtaining carriers for Governor Semple, and only too anxious to gain access to Fort Douglas, I ran with haste towards the recumbent form of the fallen leader. Grant was at some distance scouring the field for reliable men, and while I was yet twenty or thirty yards away an Indian glided up.
"Dog!" he hissed in the prostrate man's face. "You have caused all this! You shall not live! Dog that you are!"
Then something caught my feet. I stumbled and fell. There was the flare of a pistol shot in Governor Semple's face and a slight cry. The next moment I was by his side. The shot had taken effect in the breast. The body was yet hot with life; but there was neither breath, nor heart beat.
A few of the Hudson's Bay band gained hiding in the shrubbery and escaped by swimming across to the east bank of the Red, but the remnant tried to reach the fort across the plain. Calling me, Grant, now utterly distracted, directed his efforts to this quarter. I with difficulty captured my horse and galloped off to join the warden. Our riders were circling round something not far from the fort walls and Grant was tearing over the prairie, commanding them to retire. It seems, when Governor Semple discovered the strength of our forces, he sent some of his men back to Fort Douglas for a field-piece. Poor Semple with his European ideas of Indian warfare! The Bois-Brulés did not wait for that field-piece. The messengers had trundled it out only a short distance from the gateway, when they met the fugitives flying back with news of the massacre. Under protection of the cannon, the men made a plucky retreat to the fort, though the Bois-Brulés harassed them to the very walls. This disappearance—or rather extermination—of the enemy, as well as the presence of the field-gun, which was a new terror to the Indians, gave Grant his opportunity. He at once rounded the men up and led them off to Frog Plains, on the other side of the swamp. Here we encamped for the night, and were subsequently joined by the first division of Bois-Brulés.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE IROQUOIS PLAYS HIS LAST CARD
The Bois-Brulés and Indian marauders, who gathered to our camp, were drunk with the most intoxicating of all stimulants—human blood. This flush of victory excited the redskins' vanity to a boastful frenzy. There was wild talk of wiping the pale-face out of existence; and if a weaker man than Grant had been at the head of the forces, not a white in the settlement would have escaped massacre. In spite of the bitterness to which the slaughter at Seven Oaks gave rise, I think all fair-minded people have acknowledged that the settlers owed their lives to the warden's efforts.
That night pandemonium itself could not have presented a more hideous scene than our encampment. The lust of blood is abhorrent enough in civilized races, but in Indian tribes, whose unrestrained, hard life abnormally develops the instincts of the tiger, it is a thing that may not be portrayed. Let us not, with the depreciatory hypocrisy, characteristic of our age, befool ourselves into any belief that barbaric practices were more humane than customs which are the flower of civilized centuries. Let us be truthful. Scientific cruelty may do its worst with intricate armaments; but the blood-thirst of the Indian assumed the ghastly earnest of victors drinking the warm life-blood of dying enemies and of torturers laving hands in a stream yet hot from pulsing hearts.
Decked out in red-stained trophies with scalps dangling from their waists, the natives darted about like blood-whetted beasts; and the half-breeds were little better, except that they thirsted more for booty than life. There was loud vaunting over the triumph, the ignorant rabble imagining their warriors heroes of a great battle, instead of the murderous plunderers they were. Pierre, the rhymester, according to his wont, broke out in jubilant celebration of the half-breeds' feat:[A]
Ho-ho! List you now to a tale of truth
Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, proudly sing,
Of the Bois-Brulés, whose deeds dismay
The hearts of the soldiers serving the king!
Swift o'er the plain rode our warriors brave
To meet the gay voyageurs come from the sea.
Out came the bold band that had pillaged our land,
And we taught them the plain is the home of the free.
We were passing along to the landing-place,
Three hostile whites we bound on the trail.
The enemy came with a shout of acclaim,
We flung back their taunts with the shriek of a gale.
"They have come to attack us," our people cry.
Our cohorts spread out in a crescent horn,
Their path we bar in a steel scimitar,
And their empty threats we flout with scorn.
They halt in the face of a dauntless foe,
They spit out their venom of baffled rage!
Honor, our breath to the very death!
So we proffer them peace, or a battle-gage.
The governor shouts to his soldiers, "Draw!"
'Tis the enemy strikes the first, fateful blow!
Our men break from line, for the battle-wine
Of a fighting race has a fiery glow.
The governor thought himself mighty in power.
The shock of his strength—Ha-ha!—should be known
From the land of the sea to the prairie free
And all free men should be overthrown![B]
But naked and dead on the plain lies he,
Where the carrion hawk, and the sly coyote
Greedily feast on the great and the least,
Without respect for a lord of note.
The governor thought himself mighty in power.
He thought to enslave the Bois-Brulés,
"Ha-ha," laughed the hawk. Ho-ho! Let him mock.
"Plain rangers ride forth to slay, to slay."
Whose cry outpierces the night-bird's note?
Whose voice mourns sadly through sighing trees?
What spirits wail to the prairie gale?
Who tells his woes to the evening breeze?
Ha-ha! We know, though we tell it not.
We fought with them till none remained.
The coyote knew, and his hungry crew
Licked clean the grass where the turf was stained.
Ho-ho! List you all to my tale of truth.
'Tis I, Pierre, the rhymester, this glory tell
Of freedom saved and brave hands laved
In the blood of tyrants who fought and fell!
The whole scene was repugnant beyond endurance. My ears were so filled with the death cries heard in the afternoon, I had no relish for Pierre's crude recital of what seemed to him a glorious conquest. I could not rid my mind of that dying boy's sad face. Many half-breeds were preparing to pillage the settlement. Intending to protect the Sutherland home and seek the dead lad's body, I borrowed a fresh horse and left the tumult of the camp.
I made a detour of the battle-field in order to reach the Sutherland homestead before night. I might have saved myself the trouble; for every movable object—to the doors and window sashes—had been taken from the little house, whether by father and daughter before going to the fort, or by the marauders, I did not know.
It was unsafe to return by the wooded river trail after dark and I struck directly to the clearing and followed the path parallel to the bush. When I reached Seven Oaks, I was first apprised of my whereabouts by my horse pricking forward his ears and sniffing the air uncannily. I tightened rein and touched him with the spur, but he snorted and jumped sideways with a suddenness that almost unseated me, then came to a stand, shaking as if with chill. Something skulked across the trail and gained cover in the woods. With a reassuring pat, I urged my horse back towards the road, for the prairie was pitted with badger and gopher holes; but the beast reared, baulked and absolutely refused to be either driven, or coaxed.
"Wise when men are fools!" said I, dismounting. Bringing the reins over his head, I tried to pull him forward; but he planted all fours and jerked back, almost dragging me off my feet.
"Are you possessed?" I exclaimed, for if ever horror were plainly expressed by an animal, it was by that horse. Legs rigid, head bent down, eyes starting forward and nostrils blowing in and out, he was a picture of terror.
Something wriggled in the thicket. The horse rose on his hind legs, wrenched the rein from my hand and scampered across the plain. I sent a shot into the bush. There was a snarl and a scurrying through the underbrush.
"Pretty bold wolf! Never saw a broncho act that way over a coyote before!"
I might as well find the body of the English lad before trying to catch my horse, so I walked on. Suddenly, in the silver-white of a starry sky, I saw what had terrified the animal. Close to the shrubbery lay the stark form of a white man, knees drawn upwards and arms spread out like the bars of a cross. Was that the lad I had known? I rushed towards the corpse—but as quickly turned away. From downright lack of courage, I could not look at it; for the body was mutilated beyond semblance to humanity. Would that I had strength and skill to paint that dead figure as it was! Then would those, who glory in the shedding of blood, glory to their shame; and the pageant of war be stripped of all its false toggery revealing carnage and slaughter in their revolting nakedness.
I could not look back to know if that were the lad, but ran aimlessly towards the scene of the Seven Oaks fray. As I approached, there was a great flapping of wings. Up rose buzzards, scolding in angry discord at my interruption. A pack of wolves skulked a few feet off and eyed me impatiently, boldly waiting to return when I left. The impudence of the brutes enraged me and I let go half a dozen charges, which sent them to a more respectful distance. Here were more bodies like the first. I counted eight within a stone's throw, and there were twice as many between Seven Oaks and the fort. Where they lay, I could tell very well; for hawks wheeled with harsh cries overhead and there was a vague movement of wolfish shapes along the ground.
What possessed me to hover about that dreadful scene, I cannot imagine, unless the fear of those creatures returning; but I did not carry a thing with which I could bury the dead. Involuntarily, I sought out Rogers and Governor Semple; for I had seen the death of each. It was when seeking these, that I thought I distinguished the faintest motion of one figure still clothed and lying apart from the others.
The sight riveted me to the spot.
Surely it was a mistake! The form could not have moved! It must have been some error of vision, or trick of the shadowy starlight; but I could not take my eyes from the prostrate form. Again the body moved—distinctly moved—beyond possibility of fancy, the chest heaving up and sinking like a man struggling but unable to rise. With the ghastly dead and the ravening wolves all about, the movement of that wounded man was strangely terrifying and my knees knocked with fear, as I ran to his aid.
The man was an Indian, but his face I could not see; for one hand staunched a wound in his head and the other gripped a knife with which he had been defending himself. My first thought was that he must be a Nor'-Wester, or his body would not have escaped the common fate; but if a Nor'-Wester, why had he been left on the field? So I concluded he was one of the camp-followers, who had joined our forces for plunder and come to a merited end. Still he was a man; and I stooped to examine him with a view to getting him on my horse and taking him back to the camp.
At first he was unconscious of my presence. Gently I tried to remove the left hand from his forehead, but at the touch, out struck the right hand in vicious thrusts of the hunting-knife, one blind cut barely missing my arm.
"Hold, man!" I cried, "I'm no foe, but a friend!" and I caught the right arm tightly.
At the sound of my voice, the left hand swung out revealing a frightful gash; and the next thing I knew, his left arm had encircled my neck like the coil of a strangler, five fingers were digging into the flesh of my throat and Le Grand Diable was making frantic efforts to free his right hand and plunge that dagger into me. The shock of the discovery threw me off guard, and for a moment there was a struggle, but only for a moment. Then the wounded man fell back, writhing in pain, his face contorted with agony and hate. I do not think he could see me. He must have been blind from that wound. I stood back, but his knife still cut the air.
"Le Grand Diable! Fool!" I said, "I will not harm you! I give you the white man's word, I will not hurt you!"
The right arm fell limp and still. Had I, by some strange irony, been led to this spot that I might witness the death of my foe? Was this the end of that long career of evil?
"Le Grand Diable!" I cried, going a pace nearer, which seemed to bring back the ebbing life. "Le Grand Diable! You cannot stay here among the wolves. Tell me whereto find Miriam and I'll take you back to the camp! Tell me and no one shall harm you! I will save you!"
The thin lips moved. He was saying, or trying to say, something.
"Speak louder!" and I bent over him. "Speak the truth and I take you to the camp!"
The lips were still moving, but I could not hear a sound.
"Speak louder!" I shouted. "Where is Miriam? Where is the white woman?" I put my ear to his lips, fearful that life might slip away before I could hear.
There was a snarl through the glistening set teeth. The prostrate body gave an upward lurch. With one swift, treacherous thrust, he drove his knife into my coat-sleeve, grazing my forearm. The effort cost him his life. He sank down with a groan. The sightless, bloodshot eyes opened. Le Grand Diable would never more feign death.
I jerked the knife from my coat, hurled it from me, sprang up and fled from the field as if it had been infected with a pest, or I pursued by gends. Never looking back and with superstitious dread of the dead Indian's evil spirit, I tore on and on till, breath-spent and exhausted, I threw myself down with the North-West camp-fires in sight.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] It should scarcely be necessary for the author to state that these are the sentiments of the Indian poet expressing the views of the savage towards the white man, and not the white man towards the savage. The poem is as close a translation of the original ballad sung by Pierre in Metis dialect the night of the massacre, as could be given. The Indian nature is more in harmony with the hawk and the coyote than with the white man; hence the references. Other thoughts embodied in this crude lay are taken directly from the refrains of the trappers chanted at that time.
[B] Governor Semple unadvisedly boasted that the shock of his power would be felt from Montreal to Athabasca.
CHAPTER XXIV
FORT DOUGLAS CHANGES MASTERS
I suppose there are times in the life of every one, even the strongest—and I am not that—when a feather's weight added to a burden may snap power of endurance. I had reached that stage before encountering Le Grand Diable on the field of massacre at Seven Oaks. With the events in the Mandane country, the long, hard ride northward and this latest terrible culmination of strife between Nor'-Westers and Hudson's Bay, the past month had been altogether too hard packed for my well-being. The madness of northern traders no longer amazed me.
An old nurse of my young days, whom I remember chiefly by her ramrod back and sharp tongue, used to say, "Nerves! nerves! nothing but nerves!" She thanked God she was born before the doctors had discovered nerves. Though neurotic theories had not been sufficiently elaborated for me to ascribe my state to the most refined of modern ills—nervous prostration—I was aware, as I dragged over the prairie with the horse at the end of a trailing bridle rein, that something was seriously out of tune. It was daylight before I caught the frightened broncho and no knock-kneed coward ever shook more, as I vainly tried to vault into the saddle, and after a dozen false plunges at the stirrup, gave up the attempt and footed it back to camp. There was a daze between my eyes, which the over-weary know well, and in the brain-whirl, I could distinguish only two thoughts, Where was Miriam—and Father Holland's prediction—"Benedicite! The Lord shall be your avenger! He shall deliver that evil one into the power of the punisher."
Thus, I reached the camp, picketed the horse, threw myself down in the tent and slept without a break from the morning of the 20th till mid-day of the 21st. I was awakened by the Bois-Brulés returning from a demonstration before the gateway of Fort Douglas. Going to the tent door, I saw that Pritchard, one of the captive Hudson's Bay men, had been brought back from a conference with the enemy. From his account, the Hudson's Bay people seemed to be holding out against us; but the settlers, realizing the danger of Indian warfare, to a man favored surrender. Had it not been for Grant, there would have been no farther parley; but on news that settlers were pressing for capitulation, the warden again despatched Pritchard to the Hudson's Bay post. In the hope of gaining access to Frances Sutherland and Eric Hamilton I accompanied him. Such was the terror prevailing within the walls, in spite of Pritchard's assurance regarding my friendly purpose, admission was flatly denied me. I contented myself with verbal messages that Hamilton and Father Holland must remain. I could guarantee their safety. The same offer I made to Frances, but told her to do what was best for herself and her father. When Pritchard came out, I knew from his face that Fort Douglas was ours. Hamilton and Father Holland would stay, he reported; but Mistress Sutherland bade him say that after Seven Oaks her father had no friendly feeling for Nor'-Westers, and she could not let him go forth alone. Terms were stipulated between the two companies with due advantage to our side from the recent victory and the formal surrender of Fort Douglas took place the following day.
"What are you going to do with the settlers, Cuthbert?" I asked of the warden before the capitulation.
"Aye! That's a question," was the grim response.
"Why not leave them in the fort till things quiet down?"
"With all the Indians of Red River in possession of that fort?" asked Grant, sarcastically. "Were a few Nor'-Westers so successful in holding back the Metis at Seven Oaks, you'd like to see that experiment repeated?"
"'Twill be worse, Grant, if you let them go back to their farms."
"They'll not do that, if I'm warden of the plains," he declared with great determination. "We'll have to send them down the Red to the lake till that fool of a Scotch nobleman decides what to do with his fine colonists."
"But, Grant, you don't mean to send them up north in this cold country. They may not reach Hudson's Bay in time to catch the company ship to Scotland! Why, man, it's sheer murder to expose those people to a winter up there without a thing to shelter them!"
"To my mind, freezing is not quite so bad as a massacre. If they won't take our boats to the States, or Canada, what else can Nor'-Westers do?"
And what else, indeed? I could not answer Grant's question, though I know every effort we made to induce those people to go south instead of north has been misrepresented as an infamous attempt to expel Selkirk settlers from Red River. Truly, I hope I may never see a sadder sight than the going forth of those colonists to the shelterless plain. It was disastrous enough for them to be driven from their native heath; but to be lured away to this far country for the purpose of becoming buffers between rival fur-traders, who would stop at nothing, and to be sacrificed as victims for their company's criminal policy—I speak as a Nor'-Wester—was immeasurably cruel.
Grant was, of course, on hand for the surrender, and he wisely kept the plain-rangers at a safe distance. Clerks lined each side of the path to the gate, and I pressed forward for a glimpse of Frances Sutherland. There was the jar of a heavy bolt shot back. Confused noises sounded from the courtyard. The gates swung open, and out marched the sheriff of Assiniboia, bearing in one hand a pole with a white sheet tacked to the end for a flag of truce, and in the other the fort keys. Behind, sullen and dejected, followed a band of Hudson's Bay men. Grant stepped up to meet the sheriff. The terms of capitulation were again stated, and there was some signing of paper. Of those things my recollection is indistinct; for I was straining my eyes towards the groups of settlers inside the walls. When I looked back to the conferring leaders the silence was so intense a pinfall could have been heard. The keys of the fort were being handed to the Nor'-Westers and the Hudson's Bay men had turned away their faces that they might not see. The vanquished then passed quickly to the barges at the river. Each of the six drunken fellows, whom I had last seen in the late Governor Semple's office, the Highlanders who had spied upon me when I visited Fort Douglas but a year before, the clerks whom I had heard talking that night in the great hall, and many others with whom I had but a chance acquaintance, filed down to the river. Seeing all ready, with a North-West clerk at the prow of each boat to warn away marauders, the men came back for settlers and wounded comrades. I would have proffered my assistance to some of the burdened people on the chance of a word with Frances Sutherland, but the colonists proudly resented any kind offices from a Nor'-Wester. I saw Louis Laplante come limping out, leaning on the arm of the red-faced man, whose eye quailed when it met mine. Poor Louis looked sadly battered, with his head in a white bandage, one arm in a sling, and a dejected stoop to his shoulders that was unusual with him.
"This is too bad, Louis," said I, hurrying forward. "I forgot to send word about you. You might as well have stayed in the fort till your wounds healed. Won't you come back?"
Louis stole a furtive, sheepish glance at me, hung his head and looked away with a suspicion of moisture about his eyes.
"You always were a brute to fight at Laval! I might trick you at first, but you always ended by giving me the throw," he answered disconsolately.
"Nonsense, Louis." I was astounded at the note of reproach in his voice. "We're even now—let by-gones be by-gones! You helped me, I helped you. You trapped me into the fort, I tricked you into breaking a mirror and laying up a peck of trouble for yourself. Surely you don't treasure any grudge yet?"
He shook his head without looking at me.
"I don't understand. Let us begin over again. Come, forget old scores, come back to the fort till you're well."
"Pah!" said Louis with a sudden, strange impatience which I could not fathom. "You understand some day and turn upon me and strike and give me more throw."
"All right, comrade, treasure your wrath! Only I thought two men, who had saved each other's lives, might be friends and bury old quarrels."
"You not know," he blurted out in a broken voice.
"Not know what?" I asked impatiently. "I tell you I forgive all and I had thought you might do as much——"
"Do as much!" he interrupted fiercely. "O mon Dieu!" he cried, with a sob that shook his frame. "Take me away! Take me away!" he begged the man on whose arm he was leaning; and with those enigmatical words he passed to the nearest boat.
While I was yet gazing in mute amazement after Louis Laplante, wondering whether his strange emotion were revenge, or remorse, the women and children marched forth with the men protecting each side. The empty threats of half-breeds to butcher every settler in Red River had evidently reached the ears of the women. Some trembled so they could scarcely walk and others stared at us with the reproach of murder in their eyes, gazing in horror at our guilty hands. At last I caught sight of Frances Sutherland. She was well to the rear of the sad procession, leaning on the arm of a tall, sturdy, erect man whom I recognized as her father. I would have forced my way to her side at once, but a swift glance forbade me. A gleam of love flashed to the gray eyes for an instant, then father and daughter had passed.
"Little did I think," the harsh, rasping voice of the father was saying, "that daughter of mine would give her heart to a murderer. Which of these cut-throats may I claim for a son?"
"Hush, father," she whispered. "Remember he warned us to the fort and took me to Pembina." She was as pale as death.
"Aye! Aye! We're under obligations to strange benefactors when times go awry!" he returned bitterly.
"O father! Don't! You'll think differently when you know——" but a hulking lout stumbled between us, and I missed the rest.
They were at the boats and an old Highlander was causing a blockade by his inability to lift a great bale into the barge.
"Let me give you a lift," said I, stepping forward and taking hold of the thing.
"Friend, or foe?" asked the Scot, before he would accept my aid.
"Friend, of course," and I braced myself to give the package a hoist.
"Hudson's Bay, or Nor'-Wester?" pursued the settler, determined to take no help from the hated enemy.
"Nor'-Wester, but what does that matter? A friend all the same! Yo heave! Up with it!"
"Neffer!" roared the man in a towering passion, and he gave me a push that sent me knocking into the crowd on the landing. Involuntarily, I threw out my arm to save a fall and caught a woman's outstretched hand. It was Frances Sutherland's and I thrilled with the message she could not speak.
"I beg your pardon, Mistress Sutherland," said I, as soon as I could find speech, and I stepped back tingling with embarrassment and delight.
"A civil-tongued young man, indeed," remarked the father, sarcastically, with a severe scrutiny of my retreating person. "A civil-tongued young man to know your name so readily, Frances! Pray, who is he?"
"Oh! Some Nor'-Wester," answered Frances, the white cheeks blushing red, and she stepped quickly forward to the gang-plank. "Some Nor'-Wester, I suppose!" she repeated unconcernedly, but the flush had suffused her neck and was not unnoticed by the father's keen eyes.
Then they seated themselves at the prow beside the Nor'-Wester appointed to accompany the boat; and I saw that Louis Laplante was sitting directly opposite Frances Sutherland, with his eyes fixed on her face in a bold gaze, that instantly quenched any kindness I may have felt towards him. How I regretted my thoughtlessness in not having forestalled myself in the Sutherlands' barge. The next best thing was to go along with Grant, who was preparing to ride on the river bank and escort the company beyond all danger.
"You coming too?" asked Grant sharply, as I joined him.
"If you don't mind."
"Think two are necessary?"
"Not when one of the two is Grant," I answered, which pleased him, "but as my heart goes down the lake with those barges——"
"Hut-tutt—man," interrupted Grant. "War's bad enough without love; but come if you like."
As the boats sheered off from the wharf, Grant and I rode along the river trail. I saw Frances looking after me with surprise, and I think she must have known my purpose, though she did not respond when I signalled to her.
"Stop that!" commanded Grant peremptorily. "You did that very slyly, Rufus, but if they see you, there'll be all sorts of suspicion about collusion."
The river path ran into the bush, winding in and out of woods, so we caught only occasional glimpses of the boats; but I fancied her eyes were ever towards the bank where we rode, and I could distinctly see that the Frenchman's face was buried in his arms above one of the squarish packets opposite the Sutherlands.
"Is it the same lass," asked Grant, after we had been riding for more than an hour, "is it the same lass that was disguised as an Indian girl at Fort Gibraltar?"
His question astonished me. I thought her disguise too complete even for his sharp penetration; but I was learning that nothing escaped the warden's notice. Indeed, I have found it not unusual for young people at a certain stage of their careers to imagine all the rest of the world blind.
"The same," I answered, wondering much.
"You took her back to Fort Douglas. Did you hear anything special in the fort that night?"
"Nothing but that McDonell was likely to surrender. How did you know I was there?"
"Spies," he answered laconically. "The old voyageurs don't change masters often for nothing. If you hadn't been stuck off in the Mandane country, you'd have learned a bit of our methods. Her father used to favor the Nor'-Westers. What has changed him?"
"Seven Oaks changed him," I returned tersely.
"Aye! Aye! That was terrible," and his face darkened. "Terrible! Terrible! It will change many," and the rest of his talk was full of gloomy portents and forebodings of blame likely to fall upon him for the massacre; but I think history has cleared and justified Grant's part in that awful work. Suddenly he turned to me.
"There's pleasure in this ride for you. There's none for me. Will ye follow the boats alone and see that no harm comes to them?"
"Certainly," said I, and the warden wheeled his horse and galloped back towards Fort Douglas.
For an hour after he left, the trail was among the woods, and when I finally reached a clearing and could see the boats, there was cause enough for regret that the warden had gone. A great outcry came from the Sutherlands' boat and Louis Laplante was on his feet gesticulating excitedly and talking in loud tones to the rowers.
"Hullo, there!" I shouted, riding to the very water's edge and flourishing my pistol. "Stop your nonsense, there! What's wrong?"
"There's a French papist demands to have speech wi' ye," called Mr. Sutherland.
"Bring him ashore," I returned.
The boat headed about and approached the bank. Then the rowers ceased pulling; for the water was shallow, and we were within speaking distance.
"Now, Louis, what do you mean by this nonsense?" I began.
In answer, the Frenchman leaped out of the boat and waded ashore.
"Let them go on," he said, scrambling up the cliff in a staggering, faint fashion.
"If you meant to stay at the fort, why didn't you decide sooner?" I demanded roughly.
"I didn't." This doggedly and with downcast eyes.
"Then you go down the lake with the rest and no skulking!"
"Gillespie," answered Louis in a low tone, "there's strength of an ox in you, but not the wit. Let them go on! Simpleton, I tell you of Miriam."
His words recalled the real reason of my presence in the north country; for my quest had indeed been eclipsed by the fearful events of the past week. I signalled the rowers to go without him, waved a last farewell to Frances Sutherland, and turned to see Louis Laplante throw himself on the grass and cry like a schoolboy. Dismounting I knelt beside him.
"Cheer up, old boy," said I, with the usual vacuity of thought and stupidity of expression at such times. "Cheer up! Seven Oaks has knocked you out. I knew you shouldn't make this trip till you were strong again. Why, man, you have enough cuts to undo the pluck of a giant-killer!"
Louis was not paying the slightest attention to me. He was mumbling to himself and I wondered if he were in a fever.
"The priest, the Irish priest in the fort, he say to me: 'Wicked fellow, you be tortured forever and ever in the furnace, if you not undo what you did in the gorge!' What care Louis Laplante for the fire? Pah! What care Louis for wounds and cuts and threats? Pah! The fire not half so hot as the hell inside! The cuts not half so sharp as the thinks that prick and sting and lash from morn'g to night, night to morn'g! Pah! Something inside say: 'Louis Laplante, son of a seigneur, a dog! A cur! Toad! Reptile!' Then I try stand up straight and give the lie, but it say: 'Pah! Louis Laplante!' The Irish priest, he say, 'You repent!' What care Louis for repents? Pah! But her eyes, they look and look and look like two steel-gray stars! Sometime they caress and he want to pray! Sometime they stab and he shiver; but they always shine like stars of heaven and the priest, he say, 'You be shut out of heaven!' If the angel all have stars, steel glittering stars, for eyes, heaven worth for trying! The priest, he say, 'You go to abode of torture!' Torture! Pah! More torture than 'nough here. Angels with stars in their heads, more better. But the stars stab through—through—through——"
"Bother the stars," said I to myself. "What of Miriam?" I asked, interrupting his penitential confidences.
His references to steel-gray eyes and stars and angels somehow put me in no good mood, for a reason with which most men, but few women, will sympathize.
"Stupid ox!" He spat out the words with unspeakable impatience at my obtuseness. "What of Miriam! Why the priest and the starry eyes and the something inside, they all say, 'Go and get Miriam! Where's the white woman? You lied! You let her go! Get her—get her—get her!' What of Miriam? Pah!"
After that angry outburst, the fountains of his sorrow seemed to dry up and he became more the old, nonchalant Louis whom I knew.
"Where is Miriam?" I asked.
He ignored my question and went on reasoning with himself.
"No more peace—no more quiet—no more sing and rollick till he get Miriam!"
Was the fellow really delirious? The boats were disappearing from view. I could wait no longer.
"Louis," said I, "if you have anything to say, say it quick! I can't wait longer."
"You know I lie to you in the gorge?" and he looked straight at me.
"Certainly," I answered, "and I punished you pretty well for it twice."
"You know what that lie mean"—and he hesitated—"mean to her—to Miriam?"
"Yes, Louis, I know."
"And you forgive all? Call all even?"
"As far as I'm concerned—yes—Louis! God Almighty alone can forgive the suffering you have caused her."
Then Louis Laplante leaped up and, catching my hand, looked long and steadily into my eyes.
"I go and find her," he muttered in a low, tense voice. "I follow their trail—I keep her from suffer—I bring them all back—back here in the bush on this river—I bring her back, or I kill Louis Laplante!"
"Old comrade—you were always generous," I began; but the words choked in my throat.
"I know not where they are, but I find them! I know not how soon—perhaps a year—but I bring them back! Go on with the boats," and he dropped my hand.
"I can't leave you here," I protested.
"You come back this way," he said. "May be you find me."
Poor Louis! His tongue tripped in its old evasive ways even at the moment of his penitence, which goes to prove—I suppose—that we are all the sum total of the thing called habit, that even spontaneous acts are evidences of the summed result of past years. I did not expect to find him when I came back, and I did not. He had vanished into the woods like the wild creature that he was; but I was placing a strange, reasonless reliance on his promise to find Miriam.
When I caught up with the boats, the river was widening so that attack would be impossible, and I did not ride far. Heading my horse about, I spurred back to Fort Douglas. Passing Seven Oaks, I saw some of the Hudson's Bay men, who had remained burying the dead—not removing them. That was impossible after the wolves and three days of a blistering sun.
I told Hamilton of neither Le Grand Diable's death, nor Louis Laplante's promise. He had suffered disappointments enough and could ill stand any sort of excitement. I found him walking about in the up-stairs hall, but his own grief had deadened him to the fortunes of the warring companies.
"Confound you, boy! Tell me the truth!" said Father Holland to me afterwards in the courtyard.
Le Grand Diable's death and Louis Laplante's promise seemed to make a great impression on the priest.
"I tell you the Lord delivered that evil one into the hands of the punisher; and of the innocent, the Lord, Himself, is the defender. Await His purpose! Await His time!"
"Mighty long time," said I, with the bitter impatience of youth.
"Quiet, youngster! I tell you she shall be delivered!"
At last the Nor-Westers' Fort William brigade with its sixty men and numerous well-loaded canoes—whose cargoes had been the bone of contention between Hudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers at Seven Oaks—arrived at Fort Douglas. The newcomers were surprised to find us in possession of the enemy's fort. The last news they had heard was of wanton and successful aggression on the part of Lord Selkirk's Company; and I think the extra crews sent north were quite as much for purposes of defence as swift travel. But the gravity of affairs startled the men from Fort William; for they, themselves, had astounding news. Lord Selkirk was on his way north with munitions of war and an army of mercenaries formerly of the De Meurons' regiment, numbering two hundred, some said three or four hundred men; but this was an exaggeration. For what was he coming to Red River in this warlike fashion? His purpose would probably show itself. Also, if his intent were hostile, would not Seven Oaks massacre afford him the very pretence he wanted for chastising Nor'-Westers out of the country? The canoemen had met the ejected settlers bound up the lake; and with them, whom did they see but the bellicose Captain Miles McDonell, given free passage but a year before to Montreal and now on "the prosperous return," which he, himself, had prophesied?
The settlers' news of Seven Oaks sent the brave captain hurrying southward to inform Lord Selkirk of the massacre.
We had had a victory; but how long would it last? Truly the sky was darkening and few of us felt hopeful about the bursting of the storm.
CHAPTER XXV
HIS LORDSHIP TO THE RESCUE
Even at the hour of our triumph, we Nor'-Westers knew that we had yet to reckon with Lord Selkirk; and a speedy reckoning the indomitable nobleman brought about. The massacre at Seven Oaks afforded our rivals the very pretext they desired. Clothed with the authority of an officer of the law, Lord Selkirk hurried northward; and a personage of his importance could not venture into the wilderness without a strong body-guard. At least, that was the excuse given for the retinue of two or three hundred mercenaries decked out in all the regimentals of war, whom Lord Selkirk brought with him to the north. A more rascally, daring crew of ragamuffins could not have been found to defend Selkirk's side of the gentlemen adventurers' feud. The men were the offscourings of European armies engaged in the Napoleonic wars, and came directly from the old De Meurons' regiment. The information which the Fort William brigade brought of Selkirk's approach, also explained why that same brigade hastened back to the defence of Nor'-West quarters on Lake Superior; and their help was needed. News of events at Fort William came to us in the Red River department tardily. First, there was a vague rumor among the Indian voyageurs, who were ever gliding back and forward on the labyrinthine waters of that north land like the birds of passage overhead. Then came definite reports from freemen who had been expelled from Fort William; and we could no longer doubt that Nor'-West headquarters, with all the wealth of furs and provisions therein had fallen into the hands of the Hudson's Bay forces. Afterwards came warning from our Bourgeois, driven out of Fort William, for Fort Douglas to be prepared. Lord Selkirk would only rest long enough at Fort William to take possession of everything worth possessing, in the name of the law—for was he not a justice of the peace?—and in the name of the law would he move with like intent against Fort Douglas. To the earl's credit, be it said, that his victories were bloodless; but they were bloodless because the Nor'-Westers had no mind to unleash those redskin bloodhounds a second time, preferring to suffer loss rather than resort to violence. Nevertheless, we called in every available hand of the Nor'-West staff to man Fort Douglas against attack. But summer dragged into autumn and autumn into winter, and no Lord Selkirk. Then we began to think ourselves secure; for the streams were frozen to a depth of four feet like adamant, and unless Selkirk were a madman, he would not attempt to bring his soldiers north by dog-train during the bitter cold of mid-winter. But 'tis ever the policy of the astute madman to discount the enemy's calculations; and Selkirk utterly discounted ours by sending his hardy, dare-devil De Meurons across country under the leadership of that prince of braggarts, Captain D'Orsonnens. Indeed, we had only heard the rumor of their coming, when we awakened one morning after an obscure, stormy night to find them encamped at St. James, westward on the Assiniboine River. Day after day the menacing force remained quiet and inoffensive, and we began to look upon these notorious ruffians as harmless. For our part, vigilance was not lacking. Sentinels were posted in the towers day and night. Nor'-West spies shadowed every movement of the enemy; and it was seriously considered whether we should not open communication with D'Orsonnens to ascertain what he wanted; but, truth to say, we knew very well what he wanted, and had had such a surfeit of blood, we were not anxious to re-open hostilities.
As for Hamilton, I can hardly call his life at Fort Douglas anything more than a mere existence. A blow stuns, but one may recover. Repeated failure gradually benumbs hope and willpower and effort, like some ghoulish vampire sucking away a man's life-blood till he faint and die from very inanition. The blow, poor Eric had suffered, when he lost Miriam; the repeated failure, when we could not restore her; and I saw this strong, athletic man slowly succumb as to some insidious, paralyzing disease. The thought of effort seemed to burden him. He would silently mope by the hour in some dark corner of Fort Douglas, or wander aimlessly about the courtyard, muttering and talking to himself. He was weary and fatigued without a stroke of work; and what little sleep he snatched from wakeful vigils seemed to give him no rest. His food, he thrust from him with the petulance of a child; and at every suggestion I could make, he sneered with a quiet, gentle insistence that was utterly discomfiting. To be sure, I had Father Holland's boisterous good cheer as a counter-irritant; for the priest had remained at Fort Douglas, and was ministering to the tribes of the Red and Assiniboine. But it was on her, who had been my guiding star and hope and inspiration from the first, that I mainly depended. As hard, merciless winter closed in, I could not think of those shelterless colonists driven to the lake, without shuddering at the distress I knew they must suffer; and I despatched a runner, urging them to return to Red River, and giving personal guarantee for their safety. Among those, who came back, were the Sutherlands; and if my quest had entailed far greater hardship than it did, that quiet interval with leisure to spend much time at the Selkirk settlement would have repaid all suffering. After sundown, I was free from fort duties. Tying on snow-shoes after the manner of the natives, I would speed over the whitened drifts of billowy snow. The surface, melted by the sun-glare of mid-day and encrusted with brittle, glistening ice, never gave under my weight; and, oddly enough, my way always led to the Sutherland homestead. After the coming of the De Meurons, Frances used to expostulate against what she called my foolhardiness in making these evening visits; but their presence made no difference to me.
"I don't believe those drones intend doing anything very dreadful, after all, sir," I remarked one night to Frances Sutherland's father, referring to the soldiers.
Following his daughter's directions I had been coming very early, also very often, with the object of accustoming the dour Scotchman to my staying late; and he had softened enough towards me to take part in occasional argument.
"Don't believe they intend doing a thing, sir," I reiterated.
Pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, he closed the book of sermons, which he had been reading, and puckered his brows as if he were compromising a hard point with conscience, which, indeed, I afterwards knew, was exactly what he had been doing.
"Aye," said he, "aye, aye, young man. But I'm thinking ye'll no do y'r company ony harm by speerin' after the designs o' fightin' men who make ladders."
"Oh!" I cried, all alert for information. "Have they been making ladders?"
He pulled the spectacles down on his nose and deliberately reopened the book of sermons.
"Of that, I canna say," he replied.
Only once again did he emerge from his readings. I had risen to go. Frances usually accompanied me to the outer door, where I tied my snow-shoes and took a farewell unobserved by the father; but when I opened the door, such a blast of wind and snow drove in, I instantly clapped it shut again and began tying the racquets on inside.
"O Rufus!" exclaimed Frances, "you can't go back to Fort Douglas in that storm!"
Then we both noticed for the first time that a hurricane of wind was rocking the little house to its foundations.
"Did that spring up all of a sudden?" I cried. "I never saw a blizzard do that before."
"I'm afraid, Rufus, we were not noticing."
"No, we were otherwise interested," said I, innocently enough; but she laughed.
"You can't go," she declared.
"The wind will be on my back," I assured her. "I'll be all right," and I went on lacing the snow-shoe thongs about my ankle.
The book of sermons shut with a snap and the father turned towards us.
"Let no one say any man left the Sutherland hearth on such a night! Put by those senseless things," and he pointed to the snow-shoes.
"But those ladders," I interposed. "Let no one say when the enemy came Rufus Gillespie was absent from his citadel!"
The wind roared round the house corners like a storm at sea; and the father looked down at me with a strange, quizzical expression.
"Ye're a headstrong young man, Rufus Gillespie," said the hard-set mouth. "Ye maun knock a hole in the head, or the wall! Will ye go?"
"Knock the hole in the wall," I laughed back. "Of course I go."
"Then, tak' the dogs," said he, with a sparkle of kindliness in the cold eyes. So it came that I set out in the Sutherlands' dog-sled with a supply of robes to defy biting frost.
And I needed them every one. Old settlers, describing winter storms, have been accused of an imagination as expansive as the prairie; but I affirm no man could exaggerate the fury of a blizzard on the unbroken prairie. To one thing only may it be likened—a hurricane at sea. People in lands boxed off at short compass by mountain ridges forget with what violence a wind sweeping half a continent can disport itself. In the boisterous roar of the gale, my shouts to the dogs were a feeble whisper caught from my lips and lost in the shrieking wind. The fine snowy particles were a powdered ice that drove through seams of clothing and cut one's skin like a whip lash. Without the fringe of woods along the river bank to guide me, it would have been madness to set out by day, and worse than madness by night; but I kept the dogs close to the woods. The trees broke the wind and prevented me losing all sense of direction in the tornado whirl of open prairie. Not enough snow had fallen on the hard-crusted drifts to impede the dogs. They scarcely sank and with the wind on their backs dashed ahead till the woods were passed and we were on the bare plains. No light could be seen through the storm, but I knew I was within a short distance of the fort gate and wheeled the dogs toward the river flats of the left. The creatures seemed to scent human presence. They leaped forward and brought the sleigh against the wall with a knock that rolled me out.
"Good fellows;" I cried, springing up, uncertain where I was.
The huskies crouched around my feet almost tripping me and I felt through the snowy darkness against the stockades, stake by stake.
Ah! There was a post! Here were close-fitted boards—here, iron-lining—this must be the gate; but where was the lantern that hung behind? A gust of wind might have extinguished the light; so I drubbed loudly on the gate and shouted to the sentry, who should have been inside.
The wind lulled for a moment and up burst wild shouting from the courtyard intermingled with the jeers of Frenchmen and cries of terror from our people. Then I knew judgment had come for the deeds at Seven Oaks. The gale broke again with a hissing of serpents, or red irons, and the howling wind rose in shrill, angry bursts. Hugging the wall, while the dogs whined behind, I ran towards the rear. Men jostled through the snowy dark, and I was among the De Meurons. They were too busy scaling the stockade on the ladders of which I had heard to notice an intruder. Taking advantage of the storm, I mounted a ladder, vaulted over the pickets and alighted in the courtyard. Here all was noise, flight, pursuit and confusion. I made for the main hall, where valuable papers were kept, and at the door, cannoned against one of our men, who shrieked with fright and begged for mercy.
"Coward!" said I, giving him a cuff. "What has happened?"
A flare fell on us both, and he recognized me.
"The De Meurons!" he gasped. "The De Meurons!"
I left him bawling out his fear and rushed inside.
"What has happened?" I asked, tripping up a clerk who was flying through the hallway.
"The De Meurons!" he gasped. "The De Meurons!"
"Stop!" I commanded, grasping the lap of his coat. "What—has—happened?"
"The De Meurons!" This was fairly screamed.
I shook him till he sputtered something more.
"They've captured the fort—our people didn't want to shed blood——"
"And threw down their guns," I interjected, disgusted beyond word.
"Threw down their guns," he repeated, as though that were a praiseworthy action. "The s-s-sentinels—saw the court—full—full—full of s-soldiers!"
"Full of soldiers!" I thundered. "There are not a hundred in the gang."
Thereupon I gave the caitiff a toss that sent him reeling against the wall, and dashed up-stairs for the papers. All was darkness, and I nigh broke my neck over a coffin-shaped rough box made for one of the trappers, who had died in the fort. Why was the thing lying there, anyway? The man should have been put into it and buried at once without any drinking bout and dead wake, I reflected with some sharpness, as I rubbed my bruised shins and shoved the box aside. Shouts rang up from the courtyard. Heavy feet trampled in the hall below. Hamilton, as a Hudson's Bay man, and Father Holland, I knew, were perfectly safe. But I was far from safe. Why were they not there to help me, I wondered, with the sort of rage we all vent on our friends when we are cornered and they at ease. I fumbled across the apartment, found the right desk, pried the drawer open with my knife, and was in the very act of seizing the documents when I saw my own shadow on the floor. Lantern light burst with a glare through the gloom of the doorway.
CHAPTER XXVI
FATHER HOLLAND AND I IN THE TOILS
Behind the lantern was a face with terrified eyes and gaping mouth. It was the priest, his genial countenance a very picture of fear.
"What's wrong, Father?" I asked. "You needn't be alarmed; you're all right."
"But I am alarmed, for you're all wrong! Lord, boy, why didn't ye stay with that peppery Scotchman? What did Frances mane by lettin' you out to-night?" and he shaded the light of the lantern with his hand.
"I wanted these things," I explained.
"Ye want a broad thumpin', I'm thinkin', ye rattle-pate, to risk y'r precious noodle here to-night," he whispered, coming forward and fussing about me with all the maternal anxiety of a hen over her only chicken.
"Listen," said I. "The whole mob's coming in."
"Go!" he urged, pushing me from the desk over which I still fumbled.
"Run for those dogs of mercenaries!" I protested.
"Ye swash-buckler! Ye stiff-necked braggart!" bawled the priest. "Out wid y'r nonsense, and what good are y' thinkin' ye'll do—? Stir your stumps, y' stoopid spalpeen!"
"Listen," I urged, undisturbed by the tongue-thrashing that stormed about my ears. In the babel of voices I thought I had heard some one call my name.
"Run, Rufus! Run for y'r life, boy!" urged Father Holland, apparently thinking the ruffians had come solely for me.
"Run yourself, Father; run yourself, and see how you like it," and I tucked the documents inside my coat.
"Divil a bit I'll run," returned the priest.
"Hark!"
The De Meurons' leaders were shouting orders to their men. Above the screams of people fleeing in terror through passage-ways, came a shrill bugle-call.
"Go—go—go—Rufus!" begged Father Holland in a paroxysm of fear. "Go!" he pleaded, pushing me towards the door.
"I won't!" and I jerked away from him. "There, now." I caught up a club and loaded pistol.
The Nor'-Westers had no time to defend themselves. Almost before my stubborn defiance was uttered, the building was filled with a mob of intoxicated De Meurons. Rushing everywhere with fixed bayonets and cursing at the top of their voices, they threatened death to all Nor'-Westers. There was a loud scuffling of men forcing their way through the defended hall downstairs.
"Go, Rufus, go! Think of Frances! Save yourself," urged the priest.
It was too late. I could not escape by the hall. Noisy feet were already trampling up the stairs and the clank of armed men filled every passage.
"Jee-les-pee! Jee-les-pee! Seven Oaks!" bawled a French voice from the half-way landing, and a multitude of men with torches dashed up the stairs. I took a stand to defend myself; for I thought I might be charged with implication in the massacre.
"Jee-les-pee," roared the voices. "Where is Gillespie?" thundered a leader.
"That's you, Rufus, lad! Down with you!" muttered the priest. Before I knew his purpose, he had tripped my feet from under me and knocked me flat on the floor. Overturning the empty coffin-box, he clapped it above my whole length, imprisoning me with the snap and celerity of a mouse-trap. Then I heard the thud of two hundred avoirdupois seating itself on top of the case. The man above my person had whisked out a book of prayers, and with lantern on the desk was conning over devotions, which, I am sure, must have been read with the manual upside down; for bits of the pater noster, service of the mass, and vesper psalms were uttered in a disconnected jumble, though I could not but apply the words to my own case.
"Libera nos a malo—ora pro nobis, peccatoribus—ab hoste maligno defende me—ab homine iniquo et doloso erue me—peccator videbit et irascetur—desiderium peccatorum peribit——" came from the priest with torrent speed.
"Jee-les-pee! Jee-les-pee!" roared a dozen throats above the half-way landing. Then came the stamp of many feet to the door.
"Wait, men!" Hamilton's voice commanded. "I'll see if he's here!"
"Simulacra gentium argentum et aurum, opera manuum hominum," like hailstones rattled the Latin words down on my prison.
"One moment, men," came Eric's voice; but he could not hold them back. In burst the door with a rush, and immediately the room was crowded with vociferating French soldiers.
"Manus habent, et non palpabunt; pedes——"
"Is Gillespie here?" interrupted Hamilton, without the slightest recognition of the priest in his tones.
"Pedes habent et non ambulabunt; non clamabunt in gutture suo," muttered the priest, finishing his verse; then to the men with a stiffness which I did not think Father Holland could ever assume—
"How often must I be disturbed by men seeking that young scoundrel? Look at this place, fairly topsy-turvy with their hunt! Faith! The room is before you. Look and see!" and with a great indifference he went on with his devotions.
"Similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea——"
"Some one here before us?" interrupted an Englishman with some suspicion.
"Two parties here before ye," answered the priest, icily, as if these repeated questions rumpled ecclesiastical dignity, and he gabbled on with the psalm, "similes illis fiant qui faciunt ea, et omnes——"
"If we lifted that box," interrupted the persistent Englishman, "what might there be?"
"If ye lift that box," answered Father Holland with massive solemnity—and I confess every hair on my body bristled as he rose—"If ye lift that box there might be a powr—dead—body," which was very true; for I still held the cocked pistol in hand and would have shot the first man daring to molest me.
But the priest's indifference was not so great as it appeared. I could tell from a tremor in his voice that he was greatly disturbed; and he certainly lost his place altogether in the vesper psalm.
"Requiescat in pace," were his next words, uttered in funereal gravity. Singularly enough, they seemed to fit the situation.
Father Holland's prompt offer to have the rough box examined satisfied the searchers, and there were no further demands.
"Oh," said the Englishman, taken aback, "I beg your pardon, sir! No offence meant."
"No offence," replied the priest, reseating himself. "Benedicite——"
"Sittin' on the coffin!" blurted out the voice of an English youth as the weight of the priest again came down heavily on my prison; and again I breathed easily.
"Come on, men!" shouted Hamilton, apprehensive of more curiosity. "We're wasting time! He may be escaping by the basement window!"
"Jam hiems transiit, imber abiit et recessit; surge, amica mea, et veni!" droned the priest, and the whole company clattered downstairs.
"Quick!—Out with you!" commanded Father Holland. "Speed to y'r heels, and blessing on the last o' ye!"
I dashed down the stairs and was bolting through the doorway when some one shouted, "There he is!"
"Run, Gillespie!" cried some one else—one of our men, I suppose—and I had plunged into the storm and raced for the ladders at the rear stockades with a pack of pursuers at my heels. The snow drifts were in my favor, for with my moccasins, I leaped lightly forward, while the booted soldiers floundered deep. I eluded my pursuers and was half-way up a ladder when a soldier's head suddenly appeared above the wall on the other side. Then a bayonet prodded me in the chest and I fell heavily backwards to the ground.
I was captured.
That is all there is to say. No man dilates with pleasure over that part of his life when he was vanquished. It is not pleasant to have weapons of defence wrested from one's hands, to feel soldiers standing upon one's wrists and rifling pockets.
It is hard to feel every inch the man on the horizontal.
In truth, when the soldiers picked me up without ceremony, or gentleness, and bundling me up the stairs of the main hall, flung me into a miserable pen, with windows iron-barred to mid-sash, I was but a sorry hero. My tormentors did not shackle me; I was spared that humiliation.
"There!" exclaimed a Hudson's Bay man, throwing lantern-light across the dismal low roof as I fell sprawling into the room. "That'll cool the young hot-head," and all the French soldiers laughed at my discomfiture.
They chained and locked the door on the outside. I heard the soldiers' steps reverberating through the empty passages, and was alone in a sort of prison-room, used during the régime of the petty tyrant McDonell. It was cold enough to cool any hot-head, and mine was very hot indeed. I knew the apartment well. Nor'-Westers had used it as a fur storeroom. The wind came through the crevices of the board walls and piled miniature drifts on the floor-cracks, all the while rattling loose timbers like a saw-mill. The roof was but a few feet high, and I crept to the window, finding all the small panes coated with two inches of hoar-frost. Whether the iron bars outside ran across, or up and down, I could not remember; but the fact would make a difference to a man trying to escape. Much as I disliked to break the glass letting in more cold, there was only one way of finding out about those bars. I raised my foot for an outward kick, but remembering I wore only the moccasins with which I had been snowshoeing, I struck my fist through instead, and shattered the whole upper half of the window. I broke away cross-pieces that might obstruct outward passage, and leaning down put my hand on the sharp points of upright spikes. So intense was the frost, the skin of my finger tips stuck to the iron, and I drew my hand in, with the sting of a fresh burn.
It was unfortunate about those bars. I could not possibly get past them down to the ground without making a ladder from my great-coat. I groped round the room hoping that some of the canvas in which we tied the peltries, might be lying about. There was nothing of the sort, or I missed it in the dark. Quickly tearing my coat into strips, I knotted triple plies together and fastened the upper end to the crosspiece of the lower window. Feet first, I poked myself out, caught the strands with both hands, and like a flash struck ground below with badly skinned palms. That reminded me I had left my mits in the prison room.
The storm had driven the soldiers inside. I did not encounter a soul in the courtyard, and had no difficulty in letting myself out by the main gate.
I whistled for the dogs. They came huddling from the ladders where I had left them, the sleigh still trailing at their heels. One poor animal was so benumbed I cut him from the traces and left him to die. Gathering up the robes, I shook them free of snow, replaced them in the sleigh and led the string of dogs down to the river. It would be bitterly cold facing that sweep of unbroken wind in mid-river; but the trail over ice would permit greater speed, and with the high banks on each side the dogs could not go astray.
To an overruling Providence, and to the instincts of the dogs, I owe my life. The creatures had not gone ten sleigh-lengths when I felt the loss of my coat, and giving one final shout to them, I lay back on the sleigh and covered myself, head and all, under the robes, trusting the huskies to find their way home.
I do not like to recall that return to the Sutherlands. The man, who is frozen to death, knows nothing of the cruelties of northern cold. The icy hand, that takes his life, does not torture, but deadens the victim into an everlasting, easy, painless sleep. This I know, for I felt the deadly frost-slumber, and fought against it. Aching hands and feet stopped paining and became utterly feelingless; and the deadening thing began creeping inch by inch up the stiffening limbs the life centres, till a great drowsiness began to overpower body and mind. Realizing what this meant, I sprang from the sleigh and stopped the dogs. I tried to grip the empty traces of the dead one, but my hands were too feeble; so I twisted the rope round my arm, gave the word, and raced off abreast the dog train. The creatures went faster with lightened sleigh, but every step I took was a knife-thrust through half-frozen awakening limbs. Not the man who is frozen to death, but the man who is half-frozen and thawed back to life, knows the cruelties of northern cold.
In a stupefied way, I was aware the dogs had taken a sudden turn to the left and were scrambling up the bank. Here my strength failed or I tripped; for I only remember being dragged through the snow, rolling over and over, to a doorway, where the huskies stopped and set up a great whining. Somehow, I floundered to my feet. With a blaze of light that blinded me, the door flew open and I fell across the threshold unconscious.
Need I say what door opened, what hands drew me in and chafed life into the benumbed being?
"What was the matter, Rufus Gillespie?" asked a bluff voice the next morning. I had awakened from what seemed a long, troubled sleep and vaguely wondered where I was.
"What happened to ye, Rufus Gillespie?" and the man's hand took hold of my wrist to feel my pulse.
"Don't, father! you'll hurt him!" said a voice that was music to my ears, and a woman's hand, whose touch was healing, began bathing my blistered palms.
At once I knew where I was and forgot pain. In few and confused words I tried to relate what had happened.
"The country's yours, Mr. Sutherland," said I, too weak, thick-tongued and deliriously happy for speech.
"Much to be thankful for," was the Scotchman's comment. "Seven Oaks is avenged. It would ill 'a' become a Sutherland to give his daughter's hand to a conqueror, but I would na' say I'd refuse a wife to a man beaten as you were, Rufus Gillespie," and he strode off to attend to outdoor work.
And what next took place, I refrain from relating; for lovers' eloquence is only eloquent to lovers.