Lords of the North

by Agnes C. Laut

"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.