Pierre And His People, [Tales of the Far North], Complete - Gilbert Parker
He had been recommended for a commission. The officer in command had
hinted that the Sergeant might get a Christmas present. The officer had
further said: "And if it was something that both you and the Patrol would
be the better for, you couldn't object, Sergeant." But the Sergeant only
saluted, looking steadily into the eyes of the officer. That was his
reply. Private Gellatly, standing without, heard Sergeant Fones say, as
he passed into the open air, and slowly bared his forehead to the winter
sun:
"Exactly."
And Private Gellatly cried, with revolt in his voice, "Divils me own, the
word that a't to have been full o' joy was like the clip of a
rifle-breech."
Justice in a new country is administered with promptitude and vigour, or
else not administered at all. Where an officer of the Mounted
Police-Soldiery has all the powers of a magistrate, the law's delay and
the insolence of office have little space in which to work. One of the
commonest slips of virtue in the Canadian West was selling whisky
contrary to the law of prohibition which prevailed. Whisky runners were
land smugglers. Old Brown Windsor had, somehow, got the reputation of
being connected with the whisky runners; not a very respectable business,
and thought to be dangerous. Whisky runners were inclined to resent
intrusion on their privacy with a touch of that biting inhospitableness
which a moonlighter of Kentucky uses toward an inquisitive, unsympathetic
marshal. On the Cypress Hills Patrol, however, the erring servants of
Bacchus were having a hard time of it. Vigilance never slept there in the
days of which these lines bear record. Old Brown Windsor had, in words,
freely espoused the cause of the sinful. To the careless spectator it
seemed a charitable siding with the suffering; a proof that the old man's
heart was not so cold as his hands. Sergeant Fones thought differently,
and his mission had just been to warn the store-keeper that there was
menacing evidence gathering against him, and that his friendship with
Golden Feather, the Indian Chief, had better cease at once. Sergeant
Fones had a way of putting things. Old Brown Windsor endeavoured for a
moment to be sarcastic. This was the brief dialogue in the domain of
sarcasm:
"I s'pose you just lit round in a friendly sort of way, hopin' that I'd
kenoodle with you later."
"Exactly."
There was an unpleasant click to the word. The old man's hands got
colder. He had nothing more to say.
Before leaving, the Sergeant said something quietly and quickly to Young
Aleck. Pierre observed, but could not hear. Young Aleck was uneasy;
Pierre was perplexed. The Sergeant turned at the door, and said in
French: "What are your chances for a Merry Christmas at Pardon's Drive,
Pretty Pierre?" Pierre answered nothing. He shrugged his shoulders, and
as the door closed, muttered, "Il est le diable." And he meant it. What
should Sergeant Fones know of that intended meeting at Pardon's Drive on
Christmas Day? And if he knew, what then? It was not against the law to
play euchre. Still it perplexed Pierre. Before the Windsors, father and
son, however, he was, as we have seen, playfully cool.
After quitting Old Brown Windsor's store, Sergeant Fones urged his stout
broncho to a quicker pace than usual. The broncho was, like himself,
wasteful of neither action nor affection. The Sergeant had caught him
wild and independent, had brought him in, broken him, and taught him
obedience. They understood each other; perhaps they loved each other. But
about that even Private Gellatly had views in common with the general
sentiment as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The private remarked
once on this point "Sarpints alive! the heels of the one and the law of
the other is the love of them. They'll weather together like the Divil
and Death."
The Sergeant was brooding; that was not like him. He was hesitating; that
was less like him. He turned his broncho round as if to cross the Big
Divide and to go back to Windsor's store; but he changed his mind again,
and rode on toward David Humphrey's ranch. He sat as if he had been born
in the saddle. His was a face for the artist, strong and clear, and
having a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deepset and
watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the short
upper lip, to which the moustache was clipped close--a good fit, like his
coat. The disdain was more marked this morning.
The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the second part
by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him was one of apprehension
for Young Aleck and those of Young Aleck's name. She knew that people
spoke of her lover as a ne'er-do-weel; and that they associated his name
freely with that of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a dread of
Pierre, and, only the night before, she had determined to make one last
great effort to save Aleck, and if he would not be saved--strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure on horseback coming
nearer, her mind should swerve to what she had heard of Sergeant Fones's
expected promotion. Then she fell to wondering if anyone had ever given
him a real Christmas present; if he had any friends at all; if life meant
anything more to him than carrying the law of the land across his saddle.
Again he suddenly came to her in a new thought, free from apprehension,
and as the champion of her cause to defeat the half-breed and his gang,
and save Aleck from present danger or future perils.
She was such a woman as prairies nurture; in spirit broad and thoughtful
and full of energy; not so deep as the mountain woman, not so
imaginative, but with more persistency, more daring. Youth to her was a
warmth, a glory. She hated excess and lawlessness, but she could
understand it. She felt sometimes as if she must go far away into the
unpeopled spaces, and shriek out her soul to the stars from the fulness
of too much life. She supposed men had feelings of that kind too, but
that they fell to playing cards and drinking instead of crying to the
stars. Still, she preferred her way.
Once, Sergeant Fones, on leaving the house, said grimly after his
fashion: "Not Mab but Ariadne--excuse a soldier's bluntness.....
Good-bye!" and with a brusque salute he had ridden away. What he meant
she did not know and could not ask. The thought instantly came to her
mind: Not Sergeant Fones; but who? She wondered if Ariadne was born on
the prairie. What knew she of the girl who helped Theseus, her lover, to
slay the Minotaur? What guessed she of the Slopes of Naxos? How old was
Ariadne? Twenty? For that was Mab's age. Was Ariadne beautiful? She ran
her fingers loosely through her short brown hair, waving softly about her
Greek-shaped head, and reasoned that Ariadne must have been presentable,
or Sergeant Fones would not have made the comparison. She hoped Ariadne
could ride well, for she could.
But how white the world looked this morning, and how proud and brilliant
the sky! Nothing in the plane of vision but waves of snow stretching to
the Cypress Hills; far to the left a solitary house, with its tin roof
flashing back the sun, and to the right the Big Divide. It was an
old-fashioned winter, not one in which bare ground and sharp winds make
life outdoors inhospitable. Snow is hospitable-clean, impacted snow;
restful and silent. But there was one spot in the area of white, on which
Mab's eyes were fixed now, with something different in them from what had
been there. Again it was a memory with which Sergeant Fones was
associated. One day in the summer just past she had watched him and his
company put away to rest under the cool sod, where many another lay in
silent company, a prairie wanderer, some outcast from a better life gone
by. Afterwards, in her home, she saw the Sergeant stand at the window,
looking out towards the spot where the waves in the sea of grass were
more regular and greener than elsewhere, and were surmounted by a high
cross. She said to him--for she of all was never shy of his stern ways:
"Why is the grass always greenest there, Sergeant Fones?"
He knew what she meant, and slowly said: "It is the Barracks of the
Free."
She had no views of life save those of duty and work and natural joy and
loving a ne'er-do-weel, and she said: "I do not understand that."
And the Sergeant replied: "'Free among the Dead like unto them that are
wounded and lie in the grave, who are out of remembrance.'"
But Mab said again: "I do not understand that either."
The Sergeant did not at once reply. He stepped to the door and gave a
short command to some one without, and in a moment his company was
mounted in line; handsome, dashing fellows; one the son of an English
nobleman, one the brother of an eminent Canadian politician, one related
to a celebrated English dramatist. He ran his eye along the line, then
turned to Mab, raised his cap with machine-like precision, and said: "No,
I suppose you do not understand that. Keep Aleck Windsor from Pretty
Pierre and his gang. Good-bye."
Then he mounted and rode away. Every other man in the company looked back
to where the girl stood in the doorway; he did not. Private Gellatly
said, with a shake of the head, as she was lost to view: "Devils bestir
me, what a widdy she'll make!" It was understood that Aleck Windsor and
Mab Humphrey were to be married on the coming New Year's Day. What
connection was there between the words of Sergeant Fones and those of
Private Gellatly? None, perhaps.
Mab thought upon that day as she looked out, this December morning, and
saw Sergeant Fones dismounting at the door. David Humphrey, who was
outside, offered to put up the Sergeant's horse; but he said: "No, if
you'll hold him just a moment, Mr. Humphrey, I'll ask for a drink of
something warm, and move on. Miss Humphrey is inside, I suppose?"
"She'll give you a drink of the best to be had on your patrol, Sergeant,"
was the laughing reply. "Thanks for that, but tea or coffee is good
enough for me," said the Sergeant. Entering, the coffee was soon in the
hand of the hardy soldier. Once he paused in his drinking and scanned
Mab's face closely. Most people would have said the Sergeant had an
affair of the law in hand, and was searching the face of a criminal; but
most people are not good at interpretation. Mab was speaking to the
chore-girl at the same time and did not see the look. If she could have
defined her thoughts when she, in turn, glanced into the Sergeant's face,
a moment afterwards, she would have said, "Austerity fills this man.
Isolation marks him for its own." In the eyes were only purpose,
decision, and command. Was that the look that had been fixed upon her
face a moment ago? It must have been. His features had not changed a
breath. Mab began their talk.
"They say you are to get a Christmas present of promotion, Sergeant
Fones."
"I have not seen it gazetted," he answered enigmatically.
"You and your friends will be glad of it."
"I like the service."
"You will have more freedom with a commission." He made no reply, but
rose and walked to the window, and looked out across the snow, drawing on
his gauntlets as he did so.
She saw that he was looking where the grass in summer was the greenest!
He turned and said:
"I am going to barracks now. I suppose Young Aleck will be in quarters
here on Christmas Day, Miss Mab?"
"I think so," and she blushed.
"Did he say he would be here?"
"Yes."
"Exactly."
He looked toward the coffee. Then: "Thank you.....Good-bye."
"Sergeant?"
"Miss Humphrey!"
"Will you not come to us on Christmas Day?"
His eyelids closed swiftly and opened again. "I shall be on duty."
"And promoted?"
"Perhaps."
"And merry and happy?"--she smiled to herself to think of Sergeant Fones
being merry and happy.
"Exactly."
The word suited him.
He paused a moment with his fingers on the latch, and turned round as if
to speak; pulled off his gauntlet, and then as quickly put it on again.
Had he meant to offer his hand in good-bye? He had never been seen to
take the hand of anyone except with the might of the law visible in
steel.
He opened the door with the right hand, but turned round as he stepped
out, so that the left held it while he faced the warmth of the room and
the face of the girl. The door closed.
Mounted, and having said good-bye to Mr. Humphrey, he turned towards the
house, raised his cap with soldierly brusqueness, and rode away in the
direction of the barracks.
The girl did not watch him. She was thinking of Young Aleck, and of
Christmas Day, now near. The Sergeant did not look back.
Meantime the party at Windsor's store was broken up. Pretty Pierre and
Young Aleck had talked together, and the old man had heard his son say:
"Remember, Pierre, it is for the last time." Then they talked after this
fashion:
"Ah, I know, 'mon ami;' for the last time! 'Eh, bien,' you will spend
Christmas Day with us too--no? You surely will not leave us on the day of
good fortune? Where better can you take your pleasure for the last time?
One day is not enough for farewell. Two, three; that is the magic number.
You will, eh? no? Well, well, you will come to-morrow--and--eh, 'mon
ami,' where do you go the next day? Oh, 'pardon,' I forgot, you spend the
Christmas Day--I know. And the day of the New Year? Ah, Young Aleck, that
is what they say--the devil for the devil's luck. So."
"Stop that, Pierre." There was fierceness in the tone. "I spend the
Christmas Day where you don't, and as I like, and the rest doesn't
concern you. I drink with you, I play with you--'bien!' As you say
yourself, 'bien,' isn't that enough?"
"'Pardon!' We will not quarrel. No; we spend not the Christmas Day after
the same fashion, quite. Then, to-morrow at Pardon's Drive! Adieu!"
Pretty Pierre went out of one door, a malediction between his white
teeth, and Aleck went out of another door with a malediction upon his
gloomy lips. But both maledictions were levelled at the same person. Poor
Aleck.
"Poor Aleck!" That is the way we sometimes think of a good nature gone
awry; one that has learned to say cruel maledictions to itself, and
against which demons hurl their deadly maledictions too. Alas, for the
ne'er-do-weel!
That night a stalwart figure passed from David Humphrey's door, carrying
with him the warm atmosphere of a good woman's love. The chilly outer air
of the world seemed not to touch him, Love's curtains were drawn so
close. Had one stood within "the Hunter's Room," as it was called, a
little while before, one would have seen a man's head bowed before a
woman, and her hand smoothing back the hair from the handsome brow where
dissipation had drawn some deep lines. Presently the hand raised the head
until the eyes of the woman looked full into the eyes of the man.
"You will not go to Pardon's Drive again, will you, Aleck?"
"Never again after Christmas Day, Mab. But I must go to-morrow. I have
given my word."
"I know. To meet Pretty Pierre and all the rest, and for what? Oh, Aleck,
isn't the suspicion about your father enough, but you must put this on me
as well?"
"My father must suffer for his wrong-doing if he does wrong, and I for
mine."
There was a moment's silence. He bowed his head again.
"And I have done wrong to us both. Forgive me, Mab."
She leaned over and caressed his hair. "I forgive you, Aleck."
A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through him. Yet this man had
given his word to do that for which he must ask forgiveness of the woman
he loved. But to Pretty Pierre, forgiven or unforgiven, he would keep his
word. She understood it better than most of those who read this brief
record can. Every sphere has its code of honour and duty peculiar to
itself.
"You will come to me on Christmas morning, Aleck?"
"I will come on Christmas morning."
"And no more after that of Pretty Pierre?"
"And no more of Pretty Pierre."
She trusted him; but neither could reckon with unknown forces.
Sergeant Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with Private Gellatly,
said at that moment in a swift silence, "Exactly."
Pretty Pierre, at Pardon's Drive, drinking a glass of brandy at that
moment, said to the ceiling:
"No more of Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night, monsieur! Bien! If it is
for the last time, then it is for the last time. So....so."
He smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.
The stalwart figure strode on under the stars, the white night a lens for
visions of days of rejoicing to come. All evil was far from him. The
dolorous tide rolled back in this hour from his life, and he revelled in
the light of a new day.
"When I've played my last card to-morrow night with Pretty Pierre, I'll
begin the world again," he whispered.
And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then, in response to a
further remark of Private Gellatly,--"Exactly."
Young Aleck fell to singing:
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child;
Come, my love, to our home,
Father, mother, and child,
Father, mother, and--"
He fell to thinking again--"and child--and child,"--it was in his ears
and in his heart.
But Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in the room at Pardon's
Drive:
"Three good friends with the wine at night
Vive la compagnie!
Two good friends when the sun grows bright
Vive la compagnie!
Vive la, vive la, vive l'amour!
Vive la, vive la, vive l'amour!
Three good friends, two good friends
Vive la compagnie!"
What did it mean?
Private Gellatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and Idaho Jack disliked Pretty
Pierre, though he had been one of the gang. The cousins had seen each
other lately, and Private Gellatly had had a talk with the man who was
ha'sh. It may be that others besides Pierre had an idea of what it meant.
In the house at Pardon's Drive the next night sat eight men, of whom
three were Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Idaho Jack. Young Aleck's face
was flushed with bad liquor and the worse excitement of play. This was
one of the unreckoned forces. Was this the man that sang the tender song
under the stars last night? Pretty Pierre's face was less pretty than
usual; the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were hard and cold. Once he
looked at his partner as if to say, "Not yet." Idaho Jack saw the look;
he glanced at his watch; it was eleven o'clock. At that moment the door
opened, and Sergeant Fones entered. All started to their feet, most with
curses on their lips; but Sergeant Fones never seemed to hear anything
that could make a feature of his face alter. Pierre's hand was on his
hip, as if feeling for something. Sergeant Fones saw that; but he walked
to where Aleck stood, with his unplayed cards still in his hand, and,
laying a hand on his shoulder, said, "Come with me."
"Why should I go with you?"--this with a drunken man's bravado.
"You are my prisoner."
Pierre stepped forward. "What is his crime?" he exclaimed.
"How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre?"
"He is my friend."
"Is he your friend, Aleck?"
What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that forced the
reply,--"To-night, yes; to-morrow, no."
"Exactly. It is near to-morrow; come."
Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre's hand went to his hip;
but he was looking at the prisoner, not at the Sergeant. The Sergeant
saw, and his fingers were at his belt. He opened the door. Aleck passed
out. He followed. Two horses were tied to a post. With difficulty Aleck
was mounted. Once on the way his brain began slowly to clear, but he grew
painfully cold. It was a bitter night. How bitter it might have been for
the ne'er-do-weel let the words of Idaho Jack, spoken in a long hour's
talk next day with Old Brown Windsor, show. "Pretty Pierre, after the two
were gone, said, with a shiver of curses,--'Another hour and it would
have been done, and no one to blame. He was ready for trouble. His money
was nearly finished. A little quarrel easily made, the door would open,
and he would pass out. His horse would be gone, he could not come back;
he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold; and the snow is a soft
bed. He would sleep well and sound, having seen Pretty Pierre for the
last time. And now--' The rest was French and furtive."
From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre parted company.
Riding from Pardon's Drive, Young Aleck noticed at last that they were
not going towards the barracks. He said: "Why do you arrest me?"
The Sergeant replied: "You will know that soon enough. You are now going
to your own home. Tomorrow you will keep your word and go to David
Humphrey's place; the next day I will come for you. Which do you choose:
to ride with me to-night to the barracks and know why you are arrested,
or go, unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with the girl?"
Through Aleck's fevered brain, there ran the words of the song he sang
before--
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,
Father, mother, and child."
He could have but one answer.
At the door of his home the Sergeant left him with the words, "Remember
you are on parole."
Aleck noticed as the Sergeant rode away that the face of the sky had
changed, and slight gusts of wind had come up. At any other time his mind
would have dwelt upon the fact. It did not do so now.
Christmas Day came. People said that the fiercest night, since the
blizzard day of 1863, had been passed. But the morning was clear and
beautiful. The sun came up like a great flower expanding. First the
yellow, then the purple, then the red, and then a mighty shield of roses.
The world was a blanket of drift, and down, and glistening silver.
Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a smile as only springs to a
thankful woman's lips. He had given his word and had kept it; and the
path of the future seemed surer.
He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him. Plans for
coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many voices filled the
house. The ne'er-do-weel was clothed and in his right mind. In the
Hunter's Room the noblest trophy was the heart of a repentant prodigal.
In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted, announcing,
with such technical language as is the custom, that Sergeant Fones was
promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted Police Force of the North West
Territory. When the officer in command sent for him he could not be
found. But he was found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with a
warm hand, touching the glove of "iron and ice" that, indeed, now said:
"Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you!" he gave no sign.
Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his horse, beside a stunted
larch tree. The broncho seemed to understand, for he did not stir, and
had not done so for hours;--they could tell that. The bridle rein was
still in the frigid fingers, and a smile was upon the face.
A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones!
Perhaps he smiled that he was going to the Barracks of the Free--
"Free among the Dead like unto them that are wounded and lie in the
grave, that are out of remembrance."
In the wild night he had lost his way, though but a few miles from the
barracks.
He had done his duty rigidly in that sphere of life where he had lived so
much alone among his many comrades. Had he exceeded his duty once in
arresting Young Aleck?
When, the next day, Sergeant Fones lay in the barracks, over him the flag
for which he had sworn to do honest service, and his promotion papers in
his quiet hand, the two who loved each other stood beside him for many a
throbbing minute. And one said to herself, silently: "I felt
sometimes"--but no more words did she say even to herself.
Old Aleck came in, and walked to where the Sergeant slept, wrapped close
in that white frosted coverlet which man wears but once. He stood for a
moment silent, his fingers numbly clasped.
Private Gellatly spoke softly: "Angels betide me, it's little we knew the
great of him till he wint away; the pride, and the law--and the love of
him."
In the tragedy that faced them this Christmas morning one at least had
seen "the love of him." Perhaps the broncho had known it before.
Old Aleck laid a palm upon the hand he had never touched when it had
life. "He's--too--ha'sh," he said slowly.
Private Gellatly looked up wonderingly. But the old man's eyes were wet.
GOD'S GARRISON
Twenty years ago there was trouble at Fort o' God. "Out of this place we
get betwixt the suns," said Gyng the Factor. "No help that falls abaft
tomorrow could save us. Food dwindles, and ammunition's nearly gone, and
they'll have the cold steel in our scalp-locks if we stay. We'll creep
along the Devil's Causeway, then through the Red Horn Woods, and so
across the plains to Rupert House. Whip in the dogs, Baptiste, and be
ready all of you at midnight."
"And Grah the Idiot--what of him"? asked Pretty Pierre.
"He'll have to take his chance. If he can travel with us, so much the
better for him"; and the Factor shrugged his shoulders.