CHAPTER XXVI
BEHIND THE BOLTED DOOR
When Thomas Norman fled with his wife and child from the restraining bonds of civilisation and became the leader of a band of lawless rovers of the wild, he little realised how far-reaching would be the effect of his rash and hasty action. In the spirit of revenge he had sown the wind, but he had forgotten the whirlwind that one day he would be called upon to reap. For a time he had rejoiced in flaming the embers of rebellion against the King, thinking thus to get more than even for his imaginary injury. The war had filled him with delight, and he did everything in his power to arouse the people, both whites and Indians, against King George. For a while he was certain of success, especially when assistance came from the rebelling states in the form of presents for the Indians and a personal letter from General Washington, accompanied by belts of wampum. For a time he made remarkable progress, and so stirred the Indians that at last they started on the warpath against the English. Ninety canoes filled with warriors headed down river to ravage the country around Fort Howe. But they were met by James Simonds, the trader at Portland Point, and a conference was held along the river. Before giving an answer, the head chief, Pierre Tomah, said that he must consult the Divine being. So throwing himself upon his face in the sand, he lay motionless for the space of nearly an hour. Then rising, he informed the other chiefs that he had been advised by the Great Spirit to keep peace with King George's men. After that a treaty was signed at Fort Howe. General Washington's presents were delivered up, the Indians drank the health of the King, they were feasted and presented with numerous gifts. All this was a great blow to Thomas Norman, although he continued to inflame the few Indians who still remained rebellious as well as the renegade white men.
His wife, a gentle and refined woman, never agreed with him in his disloyalty to the King. At first she pleaded and reasoned, but at last gave up in despair, and devoted herself to her simple household affairs, and the training of her one child, the only comfort of her solitary life. When at length she left him and he laid her body to rest at the foot of a big pine tree, he was a heart-broken man. He understood when it was too late what she had meant to him. Then when Dane, influenced by his mother's teaching, left him to become one of the King's rangers, his cup of sorrow was filled to overflowing. For months after he lived a lonely life within his silent house, dreaded by the slashers and Indians alike. The latter shunned his solitary abode, and always spoke of him on rare occasions as the chief with the "twisted head."
When, however, the English forces were defeated, and the war brought to a close, Norman's hopes again revived. He became active once more, feeling certain that the Indians and others would now side with the conquerors and wrest England's grip from the valley of the St. John River. The King's mast-cutters had been a source of continual worry to him. Why should those great pines be used for the royal navy? he asked. They belonged to the natives and other occupants of the land, and should be reserved for future needs. The marking of the choicest trees with the broad arrow filled his heart with bitterness, and his words so aroused the rebel brood around him that they decided to drive the mast-cutters out of the country, and put a stop to the business. The arrival of thousands of Loyalists also stirred him deeply, and he spread the report, which was readily taken up, that the newcomers would settle on all the good land, slaughter the game, and force the rightful owners to leave.
The failure of the attempt upon the Loyalists during the fall, and the carrying of Flazeet and Rauchad to Fort Howe had only embittered the rebels who had not taken part in the affair. They roused to action, and determined to wreak revenge upon the mast-cutters between the St. John and the A-jem-sek. They had arranged their plans with much secrecy, but they learned at the last minute that in some mysterious manner word had reached the rangers, who were hastening to the assistance of the King's men. There was, accordingly, no time to lose. They must strike at once, and then vanish into the depths of the forest.
Thomas Norman was well aware of this proposed attack upon the mast-cutters. Although he did not oppose it, he took little interest in the matter. In fact, he had very little ambition for anything. He was feeling somewhat weary during the fall, and the silence of his house was more depressing than ever. During the lonely days, and still more lonely nights, he thought much about the past. He knew that he had made a failure of life, and that he had nothing to live for now. At times he would endeavor to fan the coals of rebellion by reading "King Lear," "Timon of Athens," and the story of Old Aeneas. But the effect was never lasting, and when the artificial stimulation subsided he was more depressed than ever.
Such was his mood the day he rushed forth from the unbearable loneliness of his house and encountered the moose. The accident, and the meeting with the girl had aroused him for a while, and his old-time spirit of rebellion flared up in his passionate outburst against the King and the Loyalists. But it was only temporary, and when he learned that the girl was James Sterling's daughter, he was forced to capitulate. He made a few spasmodic efforts after that, but the gentleness of the girl, together with the fact that she knew and loved Dane, swept everything else away.
His great concern now was about the rebels. They could march against the mast-cutters if they wished, but he did not want them to see Jean. He knew what they were like, and when their coarse brutal natures became inflamed through liquor, there was no telling what they might do. For this reason he had urged Dave to turn them aside, and induce them to march straight overland. Of the success of this plan he had little hope, as the slashers knew of the rum he kept on hand, and for that they would come, if for nothing else.
So that night as he lay there watching Jean as she sat before the fire, he listened intently, expecting every minute to hear the voices and steps of the undesired rebels. Bitterly now he regretted his action in the past, and almost cursed himself for his blind folly. Several times he was on the point of warning Jean of her danger. But how could he tell her, and what good would it do? There was no place where she could go for protection, and he was helpless to aid her. His only comfort lay in the hope that he could influence the men by making them think that she was his daughter. This, he knew, would be but a poor excuse, and it was hardly likely that they would believe him. They were well aware that he had no daughter, and would look upon the girl's presence in the house in one light only. A groan escaped his lips as he thought of this.
"Are you suffering much?" Jean asked, going to his side. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Not for me, I'm afraid," was the reply. "There is something, though, that you can do. I may have visitors to-night, and no doubt they will be hungry. Do you think you could carry those provisions into this room? I don't want the men to disturb you. I hope those sacks will not be too heavy."
"I think I can do it," Jean replied. "Where shall I put them?"
"As near the door there as possible. And the rum; don't forget that, I was going to ask you to pour it out in the snow for fear that the men might drink too much. But that might not be wise. They know I have it, and if they do not get it they might become ugly."
It took Jean some time to carry and drag in the supplies and stack them in a corner near the door. She understood fairly well the meaning of this, and it filled her heart with a nameless fear. This was increased when she had with difficulty brought in the rum, and stood panting after the exertion.
"There is a strong bolt on the door of your room," Norman explained. "It might be well to keep it fastened when the men are here, for one can never tell what might happen."
"You think there will be danger, then?" Jean asked, as she sat down in the big chair.
"There is always danger more or less with those men around. When I was well I could keep them within bounds. But now I am helpless. And, besides, you are here, and that makes a difference."
"I must keep out of sight, then."
"It might be just as well. I am afraid that Dave has told the men about you, so they will be anxious to see my—my daughter."
Jean asked no further questions, but her face was very pale and her heart beat fast. She felt more helpless than she had been when with her Indian captors upon the river. What could she do to defend herself? She thought of the guns in the other room, and wondered if they were loaded. She might use them, but what could one woman do against a band of lawless men? Anyway, she was determined to do almost anything to defend herself, if necessary.
Slowly the evening wore away, and anxiously Jean listened to every sound. The man on the cot slept, and at times muttered words which the girl could not understand. She felt inexpressibly lonely, and she often glanced toward the small window as if expecting to see faces peering in upon her. She did not dare to sleep lest the slashers should come and catch her off guard. How she longed for Sam and Kitty. What a comfort they would be.
At length she rose to her feet, crossed the room, opened the door and looked out. It was not a dark night, but the moon, now almost at the full, was invisible. A keen wind was driving over the land and it sounded among the trees the same as it did before the storm she enjoyed so much in the lodge by the lake. How weird appeared the great trees, and she imagined she could see menacing forms watching her from their sombre depths. She knew where lay the trail by which the slashers would come, and she kept her eyes fixed in that direction. At the back of the house another trail began, which led to the St. John River, so Sam had told her, and passed the very place where the mast-cutters were at work. This to the lonely girl seemed the trail of hope, while the other was the trail of doom.
She was about to close the door, for the wind was piercing, when casting a final glance toward the forest, she caught sight of dim forms moving swiftly and silently toward the house. That they were the dreaded slashers she had not the slightest doubt. Quickly she shut the door, and hastened over to the cot. Norman opened his eyes and looked at her in a dazed manner.
"They are coming!" she cried. "I have seen them!"
"Where are they?" the man asked, rising to a sitting position.
"Just out there," and she motioned to the right.
"Hurry up, then, and go into the other room. Bolt the door, and put out the light."
Jean needed no further bidding. In another minute she had the door securely fastened, and the candle blown out. She then took up her position in a dark corner, where with fast-beating heart she waited to hear what might take place in the adjoining room.