Chapter I

The time had come for the North-West Mounted Police to say goodbye to Lower Fort Garry, the home of the Force since its inception some months before.

In the clear spring dawn, the scarlet-coated column fell in, ranging behind it a long tail of ox-carts and wagons. Sergeant-Major Whittaker, of 'J' Division, a straight-backed, dapper, sinewy little man with a pair of fierce moustaches, called the roll. The Regimental Sergeant-Major, trotting over to the bearded Assistant-Commissioner, reported all ready to march. Orders cracked down the line. With a shout, a thunder of hoofs and the roll of heavy wheels, the cavalcade surged into motion.

In the rear of the column rode Constable Hector Adair.

A fine, big, handsome fellow, Hector, a splendid specimen of what the Province of Ontario could produce when it tried, and looking every inch what he was—the son of a hardy soldier-father, that Colonel Adair who had been one of the pioneers of old Blenheim County, at home, and who, before that, had served under the Iron Duke himself in the Peninsula and at Waterloo. This young giant's broad shoulders and deep chest would have been the envy of many heavy dragoons, and he was six feet tall. His face, bronzed, with straight nose, strong chin, firm mouth and steel-grey eyes, had in it a great power and yet an idealism unspoilt by contact with the rotten side of Life. Men—a keen observer felt—though knowing him still a boy—he was actually twenty—would regard him as a man, fear him intensely and follow him anywhere. Women would thrill at his physique, linger over his brown hair, know him a man, regard him as a boy and love him with a love largely maternal.

More than this, he looked the soldier-born. No finer school for the making of men ever existed than the old, partially developed Upper Canada where Hector had first seen the light and spent his childhood. It had been rough, crude and half civilized but also vigorous and strong. Its immense forests, its rapid streams, its solitudes possessed by dangerous wild animals, had given him resource, self-reliance, endurance, courage. The most ordinary affairs of life—a visit to the nearest settlement, the routine journey to church or school—tested the quality of many a grown man. The barest necessities were won only by the hardest of hard work. Even the pastimes of the district round about demanded much pluck and stamina. Blue blood went without luxuries and handled axe or plough. Men were men there, boys were men in miniature, and women were worthy of their sons and husbands—more could not be said in praise of them. Altogether, the natural environment which had been Hector's as a boy could not help but develop in him the first requisite of the born soldier—true manhood. And the sports to be enjoyed in Blenheim county—shooting, fishing, big game hunting in the heart of the great wildernesses—had made him a giant at last, with a heart that nothing shook and no nerves whatever.

If all this were not enough, Hector's boyhood associates had been of a character which must inevitably have shaped him into what he was. Take the Colonel, who, coming out to Canada to occupy land under one of the earliest settlement schemes, had built up prosperity for himself and constructed Silvercrest, his fine estate, from the trackless wild. The Colonel, from the first, had intended that his son should have a Commission in the Army and carry on the fighting traditions of a martial family. He believed, besides, in King Solomon's adage concerning the rod and the spoiled child, considered that boys should be seldom seen and never heard and held other ideas equally as uncomfortable.

The Colonel had not been able to spare much time to Hector, but, such as it was, it was well spent. He had not only thrashed him when he needed it, but had educated him. Knowing that the little country school could give his son only a rudimentary education, he expended an hour or so a day in teaching Hector many things in literature, geography, history and mathematics—particularly literature. By great effort, labouriously bringing many of the books all the way from England, the Colonel had formed a fine library at Silvercrest. The old classics were there, with later and contemporary writers—Scott, Coleridge, Dickens and Alfred Tennyson, the handsome lion of the Old Land. Father and son had toiled most studiously over these treasures and it was worth something to see the small, brown-haired boy struggling with the heroes of Greece under the stern eye of his white-haired parent. Hector had the run of the room and on rainy days all the giants of romance and chivalry took full possession of that book-lined haven in the wilderness. Such passages as this rang like far trumpets in his ears:

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
To reverence the King as if he were
Their conscience and their conscience as their King;
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To honour his own word as if his God's,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her
And worship her by years of noble deeds
Until they won her....

These stirring lines, from the beginning, had filled him with strange longings and given him a great ideal.

Besides these more general things, much of the Colonel's teaching had been devoted to building up the boy into that splendid product, 'an officer and a gentleman.'

Then there was his mother—a sweet, gentle, dainty woman, of marvellous housekeeping ability. From her, Hector had learned such of those fine, old-fashioned principles as the Colonel had been too busy to teach. Hector's little sister, Nora—his constant companion in his boyhood doings, rendering him profound homage and devotion and regarding him as a demigod, the mover of mountains, the achiever of impossibilities—had done much to make him chivalrous. His cousins Hugh and Allen, boys of his own age who lived close by, could not be said to have much influenced him, except to make him one of the most reckless lads and finest sportsmen in the county, though from his older cousin, John, he had learnt all he knew of woodcraft and athletics.

But the men on his father's farm had done more to make a soldier out of Hector than even the Colonel. They were all veterans of many campaigns, or at least members of the local militia—none but these were granted work at Silvercrest. Grey old, lean old Sergeant Pierce, the Colonel's right-hand man, had marched with the 28th, the Colonel's own Regiment, from Torres Vedras to the Pyrenees. Corporal Hardwick, late of the 95th, had served in the Kaffir Wars and accompanied the 'Green Jackets' in the attack on the Sevastapol Ovens. Private Toombs had aided the 57th—the famous 'Die-hards'—in suppressing the 'Sepoy Rebellion.' 'Maintop' MacEachern, senior naval representative, a lean, white-whiskered old sea-dog, had been a powder-monkey under Broke when the Shannon took the Chesapeake. And 'Long Dick' Masters, the 'daddy' of the whole crowd, barring Sergeant Pierce, and so tall that he could give even the Sergeant a couple of inches, had long ago led the rush of the York Volunteers at Queenston Heights.

The influence of such men on a youngster's development was inevitably potent. Thanks to them, Silvercrest had overflowed with Service tradition. As a small boy, Hector had been allowed to form them into a little company, which, under the Sergeant's supervision, he drilled with unflagging zeal, until he was as efficient as the smartest instructor in the smartest regiment of the Guards. They told him yarns of a hundred fights and fields. They sang him marvellous choruses—'Ranzo,' 'We'll Fight the Greeks and Romans on the High Seas-O,' 'The Bold Soldier Boy' and many others—which in their day had startled the French outposts in Spain or enlivened the fo'c's'le of the Victory. They gave him such formulæ as this, which he had from Sergeant Pierce: 'Don't knuckle down to a bully. Don't start the trouble but take on anything that breathes if there's good reason. Stand up to your man like a soldier, even if you know you're licked, and fight—d'you see, little master?—till the last shot's fired.' And, between them, they drove him wild to serve the Queen.

No wonder, then, that he rode out today in the midst of the Mounted Police.

But why was he only a ranker—when the Colonel, from the first, had trained him for a Commission?

Of this—a word later.

III

So the years of Hector's boyhood had been passed in an atmosphere of idealistic tradition.

His first attempt at soldiering in earnest was made when he was twelve years old—with the Fenian raids on the Niagara Peninsula.

The Blenheim Rangers, one of Upper Canada's finest militia regiments, being called out on this occasion to defend the frontier, Hector yearned to march away with them. He thought, poor youngster, that he might be allowed to serve as a bugler or a drummer, for he was big and strong for his age. Born, as Maintop put it, with a sword in his hand and epaulettes on his shoulders, accustomed all his life to hear of 'sallies and retires, of trenches, tents' and such matters, his daily course shaped with the idea that he was eventually to have a Commission, this was only natural. The Colonel, equally naturally, refused point-blank to let him go. And—again of course—Hector took the law into his own hands and ran away.

All was confusion and anxiety at Silvercrest during the following three days and a hue and cry sought Hector over half Upper Canada. When eventually he was brought back, a dishevelled, unhappy little figure, the Colonel found he had not the heart to punish him as he deserved. He could only gently reprove him and promise that, in any future emergency, provided the authorities would have him, he would be allowed to go.

Though Hector's share in the repulse of the Fenian raids was thus brought to nought, the attempt had at least shown that the spirit of soldiering was strong within him.

The Colonel's promise was tested and Hector's second opportunity came with the expedition sent to crush the rebellion on the Red River. The boy was then sixteen and already of fine physique. John, who had a Commission in one of the regiments, requested and, to Hector's rapture, received permission to enlist him in his company. But again Fate stepped in, cruelly. Hector got as far as Toronto, where the expedition was assembling, when a telegram recalled him. His adored little sister, Nora, always delicate, was dying of pneumonia caught in a summer storm. Hector reached home in time to hold her dead body in his arms. He was heart-broken. Grown pale and stooped and haggard in a night, his father made him a piteous appeal.

"Hector," he had said, "I want you to give up this idea of going to Fort Garry. It would have been different had—had Nora lived. But your mother needs you now. She can't lose her two babies at once. Everything can be arranged. My friends in the Rifles will give you your discharge. I hate to disappoint you a second time, boy. I'm asking you to make a big sacrifice."

And Hector—with a great effort of real courage—had answered quietly,

"Of course, in that case, sir—I'll not go."

So he moved a step nearer true manhood.

At Toronto, while waiting to go to Red River, Hector had a strange experience—an isolated thing, as incongruous as a wreath of flowers in the mouth of a cannon. He had not, at that time, the perception to realize that it was the first shadow of things to come, sent to open his eyes to his dawning power.

One evening, walking by himself, he struck up an acquaintance with a young fellow named George Harris. Afterwards, they saw each other frequently. Hector enjoyed George's company, because he was refreshingly unlike any other boy he had ever met, an amazing complexity, made up of many extremes. He had odd fits of melancholy, when he said nothing, alternating with bursts of liveliness, when he chattered away for hours on any subject. Though he neither smoked nor drank, he could swear with marvellous fluency—like a schoolboy in the role of man-about-town. Possessed of an extraordinary eye for a well-dressed woman or a handsome man, he yet hated Hector to look at either. He had rooms in town, but persistently refused to ask Hector into them. No persuasion would induce him to go out except at night. Altogether, he was a curious fellow.

Then came the revelation. The childish side of George's character showed itself one evening in enthusiastic declarations that he wished he was a soldier. Hector agreed it was a fine life. That fairly launched George. Real soldiering did not appeal to him. It was the glamour of display—the great reviews, the bands, the gleaming scarlet.

Quite carried away, he halted in the street, clasped his hands and exclaimed ecstatically:

"Oh, I love to hear the jingling of the spurs!"

Instantly Hector's suspicions, till then stupidly dormant, had flamed up. He glanced around the dark street. No-one was in sight. They were in the bright glow of a lamp.

Sending George's hat spinning, he caught him by the wrists in a fierce grip. And—a mass of fair hair came tumbling down the captive's shoulders—a pretty face, distorted with alarm, sprang into view—

A girl! All the moods and caprices were instantly explained. A girl!

Hector's heart beat furiously. He held her tight.

"Let me go!" she gasped, struggling. "You're hurting me. We'll be seen! Let me go!"

Hector flamed into frightened rage—he was very young and knew nothing of women.

"Who are you?" he panted. "What do you mean by it? Supposing we'd been caught like this? You fool—you fool!—"

"Let me go!" she begged.

"Answer me, will you?" he stormed.

Realizing that this was a woman several years older than himself, he became suddenly conscious of his helplessness in her hands and felt something not far from terror seize him.

"What am I to think of you?"

"Shut up!" White, with agonized tears in her eyes, she looked defiantly into his face. "I won't have you talk to me like this. Oh, I know I've run the risk of ruining myself and hurting you, but I don't care—no, I don't! I'm just as straight as—as—" She mastered herself with an effort. "Listen! Do you think I'd have dressed myself up like this otherwise? Gone to all this trouble? And taken these chances? And kept you out of my rooms? You bet I wouldn't! I'd have dressed myself up to kill and stopped you on the street. But a—a straight girl can't do that! So I had to do this. It was the only way. Oh, can't you see?"

"Had to! The only way!"

Bitter scorn lashed her.

"Yes, it was," she said. Suddenly she dropped her voice and turned her face to his. "I saw you out walking several times. I had to know you. Hector, don't you understand?"

He was dazed. He clung to her wrists.

"You fool—" she went on, with a strange little laugh. "You are the fool, funny, silly boy! Don't you see—I'm mad about you, Hector?"

This frightened him more than ever.

"The devil you are!" he ground out. "Who are you, anyway? What am I going to do to you?"

Desperately humiliated, she fought to escape. He held her strongly. She gasped and prayed for release but he would not listen.

"Hector," she had implored, at last, "if you're a gentleman—if you've any sense of chivalry—!"

Any sense of chivalry? She had struck the right note.

He let her go—watched her run away until the night swallowed her. Then, in a sort of stupour, he picked up his swagger stick and walked back to his quarters....

Nothing in his experience, before or since, had so closely resembled a 'love affair.'

Strangely enough, it was to his father's death that Hector eventually owed his opportunity to achieve the life for which he had been trained since birth—life in the service of the Queen; and the realization of his boyhood dreams of chivalry.

To this, too, he owed the fact that, when eventually he donned the scarlet tunic, that tunic was, not the gold-laced vestment of an officer, but the plain coat of a ranker, in the Mounted Police.

The status under which he entered the Service was a heavy disappointment. His early enlistments in the militia or the Rifles for the Red River had been merely preliminary canters regarded at the time as useful training for the future Commission. Hector was not ashamed of his ranker's uniform. He knew the true worth of the man who carries the rifle and pack. Though the sword points the way, the bayonet must follow—or there can be no victory. But the high heart aspires to the sword rather than the bayonet. It is not always easy to follow. It is always difficult to lead. He wished to lead—had been trained and moulded for leadership. To have to relinquish leadership or give up the Service altogether had been a terrible blow to him—how terrible only those who come of Service blood and have lived for years in a Service atmosphere can really appreciate.

For to such as these—to such as Hector—the Army is no machine, no hide-bound association of slaves marching in the lockstep of brutal discipline; nor is it a great dramatic society devoted to meaningless ritual and pompous display. At its worst, it is not the raving monster of ignorant fancy, revelling in sacrifice and blood. But it is something so wonderful that no pen on earth can picture it. It is a glorious brotherhood, a religion giving and demanding much of its votaries—demanding dauntless devotion, iron endurance, inflexible loyalty to God, King, division, battalion—giving the knowledge of work well done and petty selfishness voluntarily set aside for the good of the common cause. To such as these there is marvellous music in the wild voice of the bugle—hallowed by sacred memories and age-old traditions—and the majestic dignity and power in the mere sight of a brigade presenting arms will bring a lump to their throats, while the Colours, tattered, stained with the blood of heroes, emblazoned with the names of great victories, have about them something almost divine. They have one mistress—these Service men—one mother, one sister, whose honour is in their hands and for whom they will die without a murmur. She watches them, rewards them, punishes them, loves them, guards them, from the 'Reveille' of their first morning to the 'Last Post' and three rounds blank of the last night of all. She is fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army with banners. They call her The Regiment.

A place in this great brotherhood belongs to every soldier. But the officer is the High Priest of the order. It is for him to guide and encourage his men, to rally the broken line, halt the retreat, give fresh life to the failing charge and gather the spears into his breast to make a place for them to follow. Rob a boy trained for leadership of his birthright and he loses everything he considers worth while. Cut him off from The Regiment and—break his heart.

The Colonel had succumbed to a stroke. His fatal illness had not come suddenly. From the day of Nora's death, it had begun. Nora seemed to have taken away the Colonel's vigour with her. But the decline was not solely on her account. For years, though Hector had not known it till too late, the Colonel had laboured under a heavy financial burden—notes endorsed—bad harvests—family honour—the old, old story.

To this state of affairs, above everything, the change of plans for Hector's future had been due. The old gentleman had torn his heart out when he told his son that he must give up the idea of a Regular Commission or even of enlisting because it had become his duty to go into business and redeem the family fortune.

The hideous truth had revealed itself by slow degrees after the Colonel's death, when it was seen that practically nothing was left for Hector and his mother, that Silvercrest and everything in it must go, that Hector would have to get some kind of work at once and that Mrs. Adair must transfer herself to John's, for the time at least.

Came into Hector's hands, at this crisis, a clipping, like the blast of a trumpet sounding specially for him.

'Recruiting for New Police Force Commences,' said the headlines of the clipping. 'Officers in City.'

There followed a description of the measures which were about to enforce the new North-West Mounted Police Act. It seemed that three hundred men 'who should be mounted as the Government should from time to time direct,' were being assembled for duty as military constabulary in the North-West Territories. 'No person shall be appointed to the Police Force unless he be of sound constitution, active and able-bodied, able to ride, of good character, able to read and write either the English or French language and between the ages of 18 and 40 years.' This extract had shown Hector that he could easily qualify.

The clipping came from a Toronto paper and was dated August, 1873.

Here was his chance. It was 'now or never.' Fate or Destiny had placed that item in his hands, for a purpose, and that purpose must be fulfilled. Then and there, Hector had resolved to accept the chance....

There was in the dining-room at Silvercrest, carved in stone above the fireplace, a crest and motto, the coat-of-arms of the Colonel's branch of the Adair family. Hector, in the old days, had eagerly gained from his father a full knowledge of the meaning of every device and had even become capable, in time, of reciting every syllable of the heraldic language describing the coat-of-arms. This had been placed upon the shield to commemorate the gallantry of an Adair at Bannockburn; that to symbolize the endurance of another at Sluys. The history of the family was written in the design. And it bore not one vestige of dishonour.

"Remember, Hector," the Colonel had often said fiercely, "the shield is clean. Mind you keep it so!"

Beneath the clean shield was the motto, consisting of two words only, but in these words also might be read the story of a mighty line:

'Strong.—Steadfast.'

All that 'Strong' can mean, all that 'Steadfast' can imply,, the Adairs had always been. Woe betide the luckless wight who should be the first to deviate from it!

'Strong! Steadfast!'

Strong and steadfast Hector would have to be if he was to maintain the honour of the Adairs in the times before him. His feet were on the sunset trail. At its end was Life, swift and fierce and terrible. Years and years of battling through wild winters and blazing summers, on barren mountains, lifeless prairies, and death-dominated rivers lay before him and in that Western land the hands of many men—merciless Indians, murderous horse-thieves, gamblers, whiskey-traders and desperadoes—would be against him—against him and his comrades of the Police. He knew it. He knew that the Force would be but a handful scattered over a vast wilderness which it must protect and eventually free from the domination of innumerable enemies. He knew the greatness of the task to be achieved before the Flag could wave in security from sea to sea. Here was a wonderful opportunity, a real fight to win, a splendid objective. It should have frightened him. Instead he welcomed it. He was as fitted for the work before him as any man could be.

'Strong. Steadfast.'