Romany of the Snows - Gilbert Parker
A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS, Complete
BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE"
AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS
Volume 1.
ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS
A LOVELY BULLY
THE FILIBUSTER
THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING
Volume 2.
MALACHI
THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE
THE RED PATROL
THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN
AT BAMBER'S BOOM
Volume 3.
THE BRIDGE HOUSE
THE EPAULETTES
THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER
THE FINDING OF FINGALL
THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE
Volume 4.
LITTLE BABICHE
AT POINT O' BUGLES
THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA
THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS
THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR
Volume 5.
THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE"
A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS
THE PLUNDERER
To SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE.
MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM,
To the public it will seem fitting that these new tales of "Pierre
and His People" should be inscribed to one whose notable career is
inseparably associated with the life and development of the Far
North.
But there is a deeper and more personal significance in this
dedication, for some of the stories were begotten in late gossip by
your fireside; and furthermore, my little book is given a kind of
distinction, in having on its fore-page the name of one well known
as a connoisseur of art and a lover of literature.
Believe me,
DEAR SIR WILLIAM,
Sincerely yours,
GILBERT PARKER.
7 PARK PLACE.
ST. JAMES'S.
LONDON. S. W.
INTRODUCTION
It can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories. There
never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all the
thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows
without any thought on my part of putting him out of existence in one
series and bringing him to life again in another. The publication of the
stories was continuous, and at the time that Pierre and His People
appeared several of those which came between the covers of A Romany of
the Snows were passing through the pages of magazines in England and
America. All of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one volume
under the title of Pierre and His People, but they were published in two
volumes with different titles in England, and in three volumes in
America, simply because there was enough material for the two and the
three volumes. In America The Adventurer of the North was broken up into
two volumes at the urgent request of my then publishers, Messrs. Stone &
Kimball, who had the gift of producing beautiful books, but perhaps had
not the same gift of business. These two American volumes succeeding
Pierre were published under the title of An Adventurer of the North and A
Romany of the Snows respectively. Now, the latter title, A Romany of the
Snows, was that which I originally chose for the volume published in
England as An Adventurer of the North. I was persuaded to reject the
title, A Romany of the Snows, by my English publisher, and I have never
forgiven myself since for being so weak. If a publisher had the
infallible instinct for these things he would not be a publisher--he
would be an author; and though an author may make mistakes like everybody
else, the average of his hits will be far higher than the average of his
misses in such things. The title, An Adventurer of the North, is to my
mind cumbrous and rough, and difficult in the mouth. Compare it with some
of the stories within the volume itself: for instance, The Going of the
White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At Bamber's Boom, At Point o' Bugles, The
Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of the Puma, A Romany of the Snows, and
The Finding of Fingall. There it was, however; I made the mistake and it
sticks; but the book now will be published in this subscription edition
under the title first chosen by me, A Romany of the Snows. It really does
express what Pierre was.
Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have not the
sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in Pierre and His
People, which take hold where a deeper and better work might not seize
the general public; but, reading these later stories after twenty years,
I feel that I was moving on steadily to a larger, firmer command of my
material, and was getting at closer grips with intimate human things.
There is some proof of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in
A Romany of the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately
enough published originally in Scribner's Magazine, has had an
extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the programmes of
reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from John O'Groat's to Land's
End, and is now being published as a separate volume in England and
America. It has been dramatised several times, and is more alive to-day
than it was when it was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost the
same may be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue.
It has been said that, apart from the colour, form, and setting, the
incidents of these Pierre stories might have occurred anywhere. That is
true beyond a doubt, and it exactly represents my attitude of mind. Every
human passion, every incident springing out of a human passion to-day,
had its counterpart in the time of Amenhotep. The only difference is in
the setting, is in the language or dialect which is the vehicle of
expression, and in race and character, which are the media of human
idiosyncrasy. There is nothing new in anything that one may write, except
the outer and visible variation of race, character, and country, which
reincarnates the everlasting human ego and its scena.
The atmosphere of a story or novel is what temperament is to a man.
Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of skill; it is a matter
of personality, of the power of visualisation, of feeling for the thing
which the mind sees. It has been said that my books possess atmosphere.
This has often been said when criticism has been more or less acute upon
other things; but I think that in all my experience there has never been
a critic who has not credited my books with that quality; and I should
say that Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows have an
atmosphere in which the beings who make the stories live seem natural to
their environment. It is this quality which gives vitality to the
characters themselves. Had I not been able to create atmosphere which
would have given naturalness to Pierre and his friends, some of the
characters, and many of the incidents, would have seemed
monstrosities--melodramatic episodes merely. The truth is, that while the
episode, which is the first essential of a short story, was always in the
very forefront of my imagination, the character or characters in the
episode meant infinitely more to me. To my mind the episode was always
the consequence of character. That almost seems a paradox; but apart from
the phenomena of nature, as possible incidents in a book, the episodes
which make what are called "human situations" are, in most instances, the
sequence of character and are incidental to the law of the character set
in motion. As I realise it now, subconsciously, my mind and imagination
were controlled by this point of view in the days of the writing of
Pierre and His People.
In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as I think,
to a certain command of my material, without losing real sympathy with
the simple nature of things. Dexterity has its dangers, and one of its
dangers is artificiality. It is very difficult to be skilful and to ring
true. If I have not wholly succeeded in A Romany of the Snows, I think I
have not wholly failed, as the continued appeal of a few of the stories
would seem to show.
ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS
"Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I've seen along the sayshore,
and up to me half-ways I've been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the
rope to pull me out; but a suckin' sand in the open plain--aw, Trader,
aw! the like o' that niver a bit saw I."
So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was talked of in his presence.
"Well, I tell you it's true, and they're not three miles from Fort
O'Glory. The Company's--[Hudson's Bay Company]--men don't talk about
it--what's the use! Travellers are few that way, and you can't get the
Indians within miles of them. Pretty Pierre knows all about them--better
than anyone else almost. He'll stand by me in it--eh, Pierre?"
Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took no notice, and was
silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the
trapper said: "Pierre's gone back on you, Trader. P'r'aps ye haven't paid
him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me--my treat--that's
the game!"
"Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy reproachfully. "Aw, yer tongue to
the roof o' yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that's wid
wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man's bat like that--aw,
Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe."
Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he
did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the
three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment
musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench
where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were.
"I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's post there. It was the fall of
the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the
air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest?
Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in
the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in the
fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing.
Cards, of course. But that's only for times, not for all seasons. So I
was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black as a
coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs worked
like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to
do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime watching the
empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young bride waiting her
husband for the first time."
Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, and his
heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on his
conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But
that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he said
coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart's goin' like a trip-hammer
at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre."
"Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air. At
night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little brown
brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same old
game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine, always
fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I had a
hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl. We
could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had never guessed
at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and understand without
words. A face was a book to her.
"Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, when we
saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. I cannot
tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut against
the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was something in
the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of the Divide,
and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at the farthest
north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a traveller like
ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us.
"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she
dressed so for ease. She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth--if
he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there."
Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the
Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed that
way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled sourly;
but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his pipe-stem
luxuriously.
"Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin's--aw!" he protested.
Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and,
cherishing his cigarette, presently continued:
"She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly
get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough
she looked, for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with a
pistol in her belt. She wasn't big built--just a feathery kind of
sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that was
as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a horse.
Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her eyes had a
hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer's in the chase. All at
once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from her and she reached out
her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were both of a kind.
They got into each other's arms. After that there was nothing for us men
but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's wife was like the rest.
She must get the secret first; then the men should know. We had to wait
an hour. Then Hilton's wife beckoned to us. We went inside. The girl was
asleep. There was something in the touch of Hilton's wife like sleep
itself--like music. It was her voice--that touch. She could not speak
with her tongue, but her hands and face were words and music. Bien, there
was the girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that fine hand it
lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so quiet. Enfin, the real story--for
how she slept there does not matter--but it was good to see when we knew
the story."
The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this
romantic mood. A woman's hand--it was the game for a boy, not an
adventurer; for the Trapper's only creed was that women, like deer, were
spoils for the hunter. Pierre's keen eye noted this, but he was above
petty anger. He merely said: "If a man have an eye to see behind the
face, he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good
woman, and that is much. Hilton's wife told us all. She had rode two
hundred miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty
miles farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of
her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison--that was the lover's
name--was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company's
post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him,
for a woman's name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew
first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the
end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word had
come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were
watching--her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get her
love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against the
one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and started
away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon Hill after
two days' hard riding--enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to do.
She was sure her brothers were on her track. But if she could get to Fort
Micah, and be married to Garrison before they came; she wanted no more.
"There were only two horses of use at Hilton's Post then; all the rest
were away, or not fit for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a lean
chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on
him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is the
good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man: she must
have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me at
the Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a sling. If the
brothers followed, well, Hilton could not interfere--he was a Company's
man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for adventure, I had an ache
in my blood for something. I was tingling to the toes, my heart was
thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs were straightening as if
I was in the saddle.
"She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could tell
but she might need help? I had nothing to do; I knew the shortest way to
Fort Micah, every foot--and then it is good to be ready for all things. I
told Hilton's wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a gesture at
me as to a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for us to
carry. She had settled all how it was to be. She had told the girl. You
see, a man may be--what is it they call me?--a plunderer, and yet a woman
will trust him, comme ca!"
"Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint
agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a
heart--a heart, Hilton's wife, aw yis!"
Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. "The girl waked after three hours with
a start. Her hand caught at her heart. 'Oh,' she said, still staring at
us, 'I thought that they had come!' A little after she and Hilton's wife
went to another room. All at once there was a sound of horses outside,
and then a knock at the door, and four men come in. They were the girl's
hunters.
"It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the
best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house.
So I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in
the Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not
giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy,
wondering all the time what could be done. There was no sound from the
other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the
game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word
for word with me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told
why they were after her. More than one of them did not believe at first;
but, pshaw, what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt
me? So the end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There was
one bad thing--their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me.
They had only rode them a few miles--they had stole or bought them at the
first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind what to
do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something shaped.
"They were all drinking brandy when Hilton's wife come into the room. Her
face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the men; and
then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they had come.
Voila, it was beautiful--like nothing you ever saw. She shook her head so
innocent, and then told them like a child that they were wicked to chase
a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she fooled them! She
said, would they not search the house? She said all through me, on her
fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But she told me something
else--that the girl had slipped out as the last man came in, had mounted
the chestnut, and would wait for me by the iron spring, a quarter of a
mile away. There was the danger that some one of the men knew the
finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with other sentences.
"Good! There was now but one thing--for me to get away. So I said,
laughing, to one of the men. 'Come, and we will look after the horses,
and the others can search the place with Hilton.' So we went out to where
the horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the corral.
"Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his
mouth, put a pistol at his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got my
Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were
few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we got
away on a fine moonlit trail. We had not gone a mile when I heard a faint
yell far behind. My game had been found out. There was nothing to do but
to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. But fighting was not good; for I
might be killed, and then the girl would be caught just the same. We rode
on--such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs pounding the
prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a hell-to-split gait. I knew
they were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest of a Divide
about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with ten minutes'
rest now and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We hardly spoke to
each other; but, nom de Dieu! my heart was warm to this girl who had rode
a hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just before dawn, when I
was beginning to think that we should easy win the race if the girl could
but hold out, if it did not kill her, the chestnut struck a leg into the
crack of the prairie, and horse and girl spilt on the ground together.
She could hardly move, she was so weak, and her face was like death. I
put a pistol to the chestnut's head, and ended it. The girl stooped and
kissed the poor beast's neck, but spoke nothing. As I helped her on my
Tophet I put my lips to the sleeve of her dress. Mother of Heaven! what
could a man do--she was so dam' brave.
"Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell of the prairie over
the Jumping Sandhills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown
plain; but I knew that there was a churn beneath which could set those
swells of sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an army. Who can tell
what it is? A flood under the surface, a tidal river-what? No man knows.
But they are sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sunrise they
begin to eddy and roll--and who ever saw a stranger sight? Bien, I looked
back. There were those four pirates coming on, about three miles away.
What was there to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse were too
much. Then a great idea come to me. I must reach and cross the Jumping
Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly chance.
"When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind. I
was all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre,
how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet powder.
As we reached the farther side I could feel it was beginning to move. The
sun was showing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked back.
All four horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. By the time
we touched the brown-green prairie on the farther side the sand was
rolling behind us. The girl had not looked back. She seemed too dazed. I
jumped from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone to the
Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I should be in no danger.
She looked at me so deep--ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and kissed
me between the eyes--I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, and she was
gone to her happiness; for before 'lights out!' she reached the Fort and
her lover's arms.
"But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills. So, was there ever a
sight like that--those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sunrise
spotting it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders
fighting what cannot be fought?--What could I do? They would have got the
girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them across, and they would
have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and then but once, in a
long shriek. But after, all three were quiet as they fought, until they
were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so we can hear.
The last thing I saw was a hand stretching up out of the sands."
There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader sat with eyes fixed
humbly as a dog's on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: "She kissed ye,
Pierre, aw yis, she did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her
now, Pierre?"
But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer.
A LOVELY BULLY
He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort O'Angel at Hudson's Bay, an
immense slip of a lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a wonderful
hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible temper, threatening tragedies
for all who differed from him, making the Fort quake with his rich roar,
and playing the game of bully with a fine simplicity. In winter he
fattened, in summer he sweated, at all times he ate eloquently.
It was a picture to see him with the undercut of a haunch of deer or
buffalo, or with a whole prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring it
shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a clear space about him--for
he needed room to stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity was
recognised by all.
Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, but scowl he ever so much, a
laugh kept idling in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about his
face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind of underbrush through which
his blunt fingers ran at hide-and-seek.